Canaries In The Mines
by The Brat Prince
Summary: Five guys get an apartment together in NYC because of the one thing they share; they're all broken. Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, Big Time Rush, I'm In The Band, and JONAS. Incest, slash, and het.
1. We're Here And We're Now

**Canaries In The Mines  
**

_Chapter One_

A/N: There is something seriously wrong with me. That is all I have to say in defense of this. Also, I nicked the title from Talking In Code by Margot and the Nuclear So and So's, but there is also a great Joe/Nick fic out there on LJ of the same name. We have no relation, but it's awesome, you should read it. EDIT (5/21/10)- Uhhhh, so I changed the name because I still felt uncomfortable using the same name as the aforementioned fic. So- about the title. Canaries were used in coal mines in ye olden days to detect toxic gases. They'd drop dead and lo and behold, the miners would know to get the heck out. I particularly like the idea because of this quote, found on some website- "The actual canary in a coal mine had little control over its fate, but it continued to sing anyway."

Warnings: Het, Slash, Incest, Underage Alcohol Consumption, Naughty Language

Disclaimer(s): Mega crossover. All characters belong to their respective shows. For those of you who don't know what shows they are, that would be Hannah Montana, Wizards of Waverly Place, JONAS, I'm In The Band, and Big Time Rush. All of which belong to Disney, with the exception of BTR, which is all Nickelodeon.

_

* * *

-Oliver-_

* * *

"I was thinking of coming to visit."

Static. Silence.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, after the tour's done. I mean, Lilly says that your place is so dirty I'll probably contract ebola-"

"How _is _Lilly?"

A laugh.

"Crazy. You know, same old. She told me her new professors are way harsh, and- sweet niblets. I'm sorry, Oliver. I've got to go. I'll call you soon?"

"Sure thing. Keep in touch."

"I will. Smooches!"

She hung up first. She always hung up first.

The thing about being in love with an idol is that it destroys all the standards a teenage boy should have. When you end up wanting a girl who's so close to perfect she might as well be part fantasy creature, like an elf from Lord of the Rings, it kind of puts normal girls out of the running.

Not that he saw many normal girls anymore. Fame did that to a person; it tore away everything he'd ever taken for granted. Even before Oliver's voice had gotten him on the radio, fame had pretty much fucked with his life.

"Was that her?" a voice from the couch piped up, followed by a head.

"Yeah."

The guy the head belonged to pursed his lips and said, "Ohhh. Ouch."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"She totally blew you off."

"She had to go sing to the _entire state of Delaware_."

"Yeah, but," the guy, Tripp, bit his lip and said, "Delaware's not a very big state. I bet they could have waited for like, two seconds."

"Size has nothing to do with patience, Tripp."

"Whatever you say, Ollie," Tripp made a whistling noise, and ducked back down to watch TV, "Whatever you say."

"Man, leave him alone," another voice came from the couch. Oliver strode over so he could see Justin face to face. The kid was pathetic. He'd been watching TV for _days_.

"Thanks, Russo."

"No problem, Oken," Justin shrugged his shoulders, which seemed kind of difficult considering how his head was precariously balanced on Tripp's thigh.

"Do you guys ever plan on going outside? You know, seeing the sunlight?"

"No," both boys chorused.

This was the problem with roommates. They were so damned moody.

"Vampires are in this season," Justin added, like he really cared what was trendy. Like he wouldn't have been hiding out on their hole-filled sofa if say, surfer boys were in.

"Have you seen Kendall or Joe?"

There was a fashion show on; rail thin models with flat eyes that lit with a ravenous hunger only when they reached the end of the runway and deemed to look at the audience, like they were zombies about to pounce for brains. Then they reeled the look back in, shackled the craving inside, and stalked away, dead again.

"No," the guys replied, in unison, again. It was like they were related. They even watched the screen the same way, searching, hungry, just like the models. Only it wasn't the stringy haired waifs they were watching.

It was the crowd.

Oliver couldn't take another minute of it. Pocketing his cell and grabbing his lucky hat, he told his roommates that he was going to go out. They barely acknowledged him, too busy scouring the shapeless mass surrounding the runway for two glossy heads of dark hair.

If someone had asked Oliver why he'd decided to move in with four of the most depressed guys on the planet, he would've said it seemed like a good idea at the time. They were all broken. Every one of them. Broken and famous, or in Justin's case, related to someone famous. They just needed to be understood. They needed each other to understand.

He met Joe and Kendall on the stairs, carrying brown paper grocery bags, the kind most people had stopped using in favor of 'going green'. They were incognito, which for Joe meant a pair of oversized sunglasses he could've snatched from a five year old and for Kendall meant a ratty gray hat that he'd probably filched off a hobo. They might've been rockstars, but they were kleptos, too.

"Where are you off to?" Kendall grinned, blowing his bangs out of his eyes while carefully balancing three bags in his arms.

"I was going to take a walk. That okay with you, _dad_?"

Kendall shrugged, "Long as you're home in time for dinner. Joe's cooking."

"I am not!" Joe squawked.

"You lost the bet."

"It was a dumb bet."

"It was still a bet," Kendall shrugged apologetically, but not really, "You make the best pasta anyway."

A girl shuffled by on her way to the fourth floor, iPod screaming in her ears. They stiffened, all three of them. Even Oliver. Listening to see whose voice would come haunt them, across the country, across the airwaves.

Nobody's, it turned out. She was a metal fan.

Joe's shoulders relaxed. The furrow in Kendall's brow eased. Oliver wasn't sure what tense habit fled him, but something had. He always winced away from radios, and he always felt better once they were gone.

"I'll be back in time for dinner," Oliver promised, taking the steps, two at a time, away from his friends.

They were all so fucking damaged.

* * *

Central Park right before the blush of spring was kind of incredibly obnoxious. Flowers were blooming left and right, and it was like young lovers viewed them as a signal to get busy in plain sight. On street corners and wrought iron benches, in boats and lying intertwined on the grass.

Oliver liked to take this one rambling path over to these mounds of rocks that bordered the filthy excuse for a river or a pond or whatever it was New Yorkers liked to call the scum coated body of water that cut through the middle of their man made paradise. He wasn't really a nature guy, unless that nature was sand between his toes and the scent of sea salt clinging to his skin, but sometimes the Park was the only place to escape.

A few years back, he'd been able to walk main streets in California without anyone saying a thing, but now it was hard not to get ambushed by screaming girls, no matter where in the US he went. When he was sixteen, he would've thought something like that was a miracle.

When he was sixteen, he was an _idiot. _

His cell buzzed a nothing tune; he'd given up having songs as ringtones the first time he'd heard one of his own playing on a strange girl's phone. He wasn't sure if he'd stopped because it felt arrogant, or because he'd been half tempted to make a Hannah Montana tone.

"Hello?"

"Ohmigosh did she tell you? She totally told you, I knew she would!" Lilly squealed thousands of miles away from her dorm room at Berkeley with nary a greeting in sight.

"Who told me what, Lil?"

"Miley, doofus! She texted me that she told you she was going to come visit that trash heap you call an apartment!"

"She might have mentioned it," Oliver replied distantly, staring at a couple in a wooden boat sail by.

"You could sound a little more excited. Haven't you wanted her to visit for like, ever?"

"No," his voice cracked a little, "No. That's stupid. I haven't even lived here forever."

Actually, he was excited. But he wasn't going to tell Lilly that. He wasn't comfortable telling Lilly that, even if she knew exactly how he felt about Miley. They'd dated for practically a year and a half, and even if Lilly liked to pretend it had never happened, even if she liked to barrel right past the awkwardness with all the grace of a rabid bulldog, Oliver didn't know how. He knew he was supposed to be able to go back to being BFFs since kindergarten, but how was it possible? How could they go back to that with everything that had happened? When they'd been each other's first, when they'd seen each other naked? When Lilly had found out that Oliver was still harboring an ancient crush on Miley Stewart?

"Your face is stupid," Lilly laughed and began babbling about all the things he had to take Miley to do when she came to New York. If she even really came.

"Lilly, you do know she's been here before, right?"

"Of course I know that. But it's going to be different with you, Oliver. She's never been there with someone she loves."

"She doesn't love me," Oliver's voice was scratchy and wounded.

It got quiet on Lilly's end, except for the sound of her bitch of a roommate wailing along to her iPod. It sounded like a James Diamond ballad. Of course.

"You know what? I've got a _ton _of homework for that psych course I'm taking. You wouldn't believe the size of my textbook. It's like, bigger than your head."

"Yeah. You should- uh, do that."

"And you should probably get over your denial. Miley's into you. I can tell."

Oliver wanted to ask Lilly how she knew, how she could tell anything about either of them when they barely saw each other anymore. It had been nearly six months since she'd come to visit him in the city, and at least two since she'd been to one of Miley's concerts. The only things Lilly had of them anymore were their voices, on the phone, on the radio. Maybe their faces on billboards. All Oliver had of her was memories of her lips and her citrus shampoo, and the way she'd smiled all secret-like the first night they- he didn't like to think about it. It felt like a betrayal, only he wasn't sure to who.

"Okay."

"Okay," Lilly breathed, and Oliver wondered if she'd started seeing anyone. If she gave that secret smile to another boy, who wouldn't sing her love songs but would love her like she was the only girl in the entire world worth loving, "Bye."

"Bye."

Oliver sat in Central Park for a very long time.

* * *

When Oliver described himself, he didn't like to say he was the kind of guy who ran away from things. Because he wasn't, not really. Oliver Oken hadn't been raised to run from anything. He'd been raised to be brave, to be his mother's little solider, to be the best big brother in the entire world.

He was sixteen when he first went on tour, a fun summer thing that wasn't supposed to lead anywhere, but did. A big shot record producer spotted him during his opening act, and between the coverage he'd gotten from that dumb reality singing show combined with the support he'd garnered from a famous benefactor who'd guest judged said dumb reality singing show and happened to be one of his best friends in the whole wide world, the producer had gone from wishy washy on Oliver's 'sound' to fully endorsing him, overnight.

Soon enough, Oliver switched opening for that tiny indie rock group to opening for the USA's biggest teen queen. That's when things had gone south.

It had been a publicity stunt. A kiss between the rising pop sensation Oliver Oken and America's sweetheart, Hannah Montana. All planned out and preapproved. Miley had given it the okay because she wanted to help Oliver's career, and even if she wasn't a fan of faking it in the public eye, she would do anything for a friend. Oliver had given it the okay because back then, all he'd wanted was to be famous, and his first single was quick approaching the Top Forty charts. Lilly had even agreed, because it was just a stupid peck on the lips. What harm could it do?

Only, that night, wrapped up in the glitz and glamour of being a superstar, of singing a romantic duet with Hannah, the girl he'd idolized since before he'd even known Miley Stewart was in possession of girl parts, Oliver had let the music run away with his sanity.

When he'd kissed Hannah, everything had gone wrong in split second. He'd known that locking up the ecstatic love he'd had as a thirteen year old boy for a pop idol couldn't have been so simple, and in his mind, Miley and Hannah were one in the same. His feelings weren't for the silhouette of a blonde girl with a killer voice any longer; they were for his friend with her drawl and her gorgeous eyes and her laughter. The moment he'd kissed her, all his thoughts of Lilly Truscott had evaporated, along with his nausea at the wrongness of it all.

After a beat, Miley had ended up shoving him away, because he just couldn't break the kiss.

His single had broken number thirty three less than a week later. He'd moved into the top ten within a month.

And he'd never forgiven himself for it.

With Miley, Oliver had been able to wave the whole thing away. He blamed nerves, and she bought the excuse hook, line, and sinker. Why wouldn't she? Huge stadium concerts could be beyond terrifying, and besides, Oliver barely ever lied. By the time senior prom rolled around, he'd pretty much restored their friendship.

With Lilly, it hadn't been so easy. It wasn't so much that she doubted or blamed him as the guilt gnawing at his insides whenever she talked about it like it had been some hilarious mistake, and not- fate.

He broke up with her a week before graduation. She was going off the Berkeley anyway, while his plans had been put on a backburner for his more pressing national tour. It wasn't like college wouldn't be waiting around when he got home.

A year passed. Then two. Lilly was going to keggers while Miley was signing movie deals. Oliver dropped a second album, and it felt like forever since he'd seen his friends. When spring rolled around and Miley called him with tickets to fashion week and the proposition of a friendly reunion, he'd jumped at the chance. Models weren't his thing, but Lilly was going and Miley was going, and he was desperate to see them again. They all flew to New York on separate planes, but they were going to stay in the same hotel, and it was going to be amazing. It was supposed to be.

Only Miley was wrapped up in her new movie costar like, twenty four seven, and Lilly had a final quick approaching. She used all her free time to study. Oliver spent a lot of time wandering the city, from the Park to Soho, from Times Square to St. Mark's Street. It was so different from LA, from everything he was used to.

The freshest face on the scene of fashion was Alexandra Russo, and Miley and Lilly were dying to check out her new line. They dragged Oliver along, of course.

That was the day he met his roommates.

Alex Russo was Justin's little sister. He'd been sitting in the front row, and when she'd walked out at the end to see how her new line had been received, Oliver had noticed how his face had just- shut down.

The guy next to Justin, Oliver had recognized. Joe Lucas, from that band, JONAS. Not to be confused with the Jonas Brothers, but equally as famous, and with weirdly similar names.

Joe was there with his best friend, Stella Malone, who had her own runway show the following day. He'd met Justin through the friendship that had sprung up between Stella and Alex, and had come along to the show for moral support. Not that Stella knew it; she thought they were supporting Alex's dreams.

Not Justin's _habit_.

Because Joe and Justin, well, they both had a really bad addiction, the kind of addiction that would have killed Joe's career and gotten both boys disowned. Except it wasn't to drugs or alcohol, or even sex. Joe and Justin were in love with their younger siblings, and in all the world, they'd found each other. That was why Justin's face had darkened at the sight of Alex on stage. That was why Joe changed the channel every time a Nick Lucas single, from his new solo album, played in one of the tents.

Of course, Oliver hadn't known all that back then. He'd just known that the expression on Joe's and Justin's faces was familiar. It was one he saw in the mirror every single day. Unrequited love.

He'd talked to the guys after the show, struck up a friendship. Joe was someone he'd met once or twice before; they ran in the same circles of fame and pop stardom. He was zany, full of ideas and constantly trying to get Justin out of his own head. Justin was quiet and clever, and kind of geeky, which Oliver could appreciate. He was kind of geeky himself.

At some after party, the three of them had run into Kendall Knight and Tripp Campbell. Kendall had met Joe before on the concert circuit, but not Oliver, and Tripp had never laid eyes on either of them. He was heavy metal where they sang pop rock, and the only reason he'd struck up a conversation with Kendall was because of his best friend, Izzy Fuentes. The boyband Kendall had been a part of, Big Time Rush, had dissolved a year prior, but one of the members, James Diamond, had struck it big. He'd churned out an album of John Mayor-esque love songs that had swept the nation, and Izzy was a huge fan, her secret shame. She'd also been a model in Alex's show, which had only used local girls. Tripp was trying to negotiate her an autograph.

Later that night, they'd all gotten to talking. Joe and Justin had already found their en, that one thing that made them comrades in arms. And they saw it in Oliver, in his unrequited love for a girl whose songs crackled over the radio at every subway shop and diner in town. They saw that sameness in Kendall, who'd given up his career to be as far as humanly possible from the one person whose voice made him feel like he could breathe. And they saw it in Tripp, who had gone solo since his days with Iron Weasel, who hit it big while the girl he loved was still just a girl back home.

"I've been thinking of moving out of the city altogether," Justin announced over a glass of bourbon that Oliver could smell even five feet away.

"Why? I thought you loved it here," Joe asked, spinning his own glass between his fingers, "Please don't tell me you want to move to LA."

Justin snorted, "What would I do out there? I was thinking like, Iowa."

"Iowa?" Tripp began to laugh, not very kindly, "You've obviously never been there."

"Well it's not like I can stay here. There's-" Alex, was what he obviously wanted to say, but instead Justin continued, "the rent on my apartment. It's ridiculous. I can't afford it by myself, and the job market here sucks balls, and-"

"You need a roommate, my friend," Kendall slapped him on the back, a peculiar gleam in his eye, "One or two or three or- four?"

Oliver, Joe, and Tripp eyed him warily. Kendall grinned impishly and continued, "I've been looking for a place to stay."

"Seriously?" Justin frowned, "Aren't you like, filthy rich? You could afford your own place."

"Jus-tin," Kendall exhaled, his dimples deepening in the shadowy light of the tent, "I can't live by myself. I might get lonely."

Joe was the first to catch on, his expression growing mischievous, his eyes mirroring Kendall, "Yeah. Dude, that would be terrible. Why do you want him to be lonely, Justin? It could warp his mind and turn him into a serial killer."

"Yeah," Kendall agreed, then paused, then blinked, "Wait- no. What the fuck are you talking about?"

"It could happen, dude," Joe argued, "You think you're just a nice, normal former boy bander and the next thing you know you've got a pig farm in Canada and you're feeding the little oinkers human flesh mixed in with their slop."

"I-" the blond blinked again, looking completely set adrift. Finally, he shook his head and said, "Your mind must be a scary place to live."

Joe tried to look offended, but then thought better of it and grinned, "Occasionally."

"Right, so back to what we were talking about- I can't move in by myself, because then I might get lonely and feed people to pigs. Also, my mother says that if I'm going to just laze around by myself all day, I might as well go back to Minnesota and live with her and my little sister. Have you ever been to Minnesota, Justin? Have you. Don't make me go back."

"I've heard Minnesota is a perfectly nice place-"

"Screw Minnesota. I have a little sister who just turned into a teenager. The hormones, dude. The hormones. Would you really wish that fate on me?"

"Okay. No. But- are you sure you want to move into my place? I mean, no offense, but you don't even know me."

Just then, Alex approached the table. She was gorgeous, bird-boned, and totally off limits. Justin couldn't tear his gaze from her. She smiled and laughed and said all the right things, and completely charmed the entire table. Oliver felt his empathy for poor, poor Justin Russo increase tenfold.

When she left, Kendall gave the boy a pointed look, "Let me move in. You could use the company."

"He's right," Joe agreed, "So right that I think I want in on this."

"Don't you have to go back to LA?" Oliver interrupted, feeling like everything was spinning out of control way too fast. They all had lives. Record deals. Forbidden loves. Could they really afford to drop everything and move into some kid's bachelor pad?

"Band's on hiatus," Joe shrugged, "Nicky's focusing on his solo career, Kevin and Macy are planning their wedding. There's not much left out there for me right now."

Oliver felt the same way, but this was _insane_.

"I think it's a great idea," Tripp piped in, eyes dark, unreadable, "My recording studio's close by anyway. Count me in."

"Okay, but- problem. My place only has three bedrooms," Justin finally latched on to something, anything to stop the crazy.

"We'll get a bigger place," Joe shrugged, "It's not like we can't afford it."

"I can't afford it," Justin squeaked, "I've got school, and loans, and-"

"You worry too much," Kendall clapped a hand on his shoulder, eyes twinkling. He turned to the rest of them, "Don't you think he worries to much?"

"Absolutely," Tripp said solemnly.

"Lighten up," Joe added.

Justin hung his head in defeat, "Fine. Okay. You guys win."

"Hey, Oliver. We're so over this party," a new voice broke in, and he looked up to see Miley, decked out in Hannah gear, Lilly hovering at her side, "We were going to head back to the hotel, rent a couple of movies. You coming?"

"Uh-" Oliver couldn't get over how she completely stole his breath away, just by being there, just by being so completely beautiful.

"What he means to say is-" Joe smirked, "He'll catch up with you."

"Ah, right. If you say so," Hannah tilted her head, Miley-eyes narrowing, "Are y'all drinking?"

"'Course not," Tripp answered, his expression completely and utterly non-believable, "But if we were, would you ladies want to join us?"

Miley ignored him, tossing her long, blonde hair over her shoulder and frowning at Oliver, "Oken, aren't you going to introduce us to your…friends?"

"Right. Sure," he did his part and introduced Hannah and Lilly to Joe, Justin, Tripp, and Kendall. He was actually kind of proud of Lilly; she managed to tamp down her enthusiasm about meeting Joe, Tripp, and Kendall until she evacuated the building, well on into the next day when she demanded Oliver procure their autographs. She enjoyed her famous connections Way Too Much.

"Great," Miley grit out, "Nice to meetcha. Oliver, are you coming?"

"I'm-" Oliver glanced around the table, at these guys, these people that he felt this total kinship with, this completely connection. Then he looked back up to the girl he was in love with, "I'm think I'm going to stay here. I'll catch up with you in a little while."

She seemed put out by his answer, her lips forming a familiar pout. But all she did was cluck her tongue and go, "Alright. Hurry up. You don't want to miss _Pretty Woman_."

All eyes flew to him and he tittered nervously, "That is my favorite."

She had the most awkward timing ever. If only she wasn't so goddamned cute.

"_Pretty Woman_?" Kendall asked, after they walked away, "Seriously?"

"She likes it," Oliver replied defensively.

"And you like her. Why don't you tell her?"

"She's one of my best friends," he said softly, "I can't ruin that."

Kendall nodded, like he got it, and out of the corner of his eyes Oliver could see the other guys doing the same. They _understood_. And maybe they were all cowards, and maybe they were all running away, and maybe Oliver was about to make the worst choice he'd ever made in his life.

"Do you think we can find a place with five rooms?"

He'd made his choice that night, and he hadn't looked back. Living so far away from home was like a godsend. It kept him away from Miley's world, from all the Hollywood glitz and glam he'd dreamt fervently about only a few years ago.

It kept him from making stupid mistakes.

Day by day, he was carving out a life in New York City, and it felt like everything had been going good. Then Miley had to call. She was going to visit, maybe. Maybe…

She was going to turn his world upside down.

* * *

A/N: Okay. I think I shall go seek psychiatric help now. But before I go, this is how this is going to work. Two chapters per character- Oliver, Justin, Kendall, Joe, Tripp, repeat. Although not necessarily in that order. Ten chapters altogether. That is the goal. If you would like to review this, that would probably make me very happy. And by very happy I mean it would make me feel less insane for writing this at all.


	2. It's All About What You Believe

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Two_

By: Jondy Macmillan

_

* * *

-Justin-_

* * *

Eight hours of the fashion channel. _Eight hours_. It was pretty much the longest form of self imposed torture Justin had ever put himself through.

Growing up, his little sister had laughed whenever she saw a runway show. According to her best friend, Harper, the waif thin models were exemplary of the ridiculous standards the fashion world tried to impose on young girls who already had enough body issues as it was. According to Alex, the models just needed to eat a goddamned sandwich.

After eight hours of watching hipless, breastless models trot down catwalks made of various materials, Justin was inclined to agree. Some of these poor girls looked like Auschwitz survivors, and the worst part was, he couldn't find it in his heart to be angry about it. The only thing Justin could do was search the crowd, searching for a single glimpse of Alex's glossy hair.

They hadn't spoken for a month.

"Russo," Tripp murmured, "I think its official. Your sister did not flee the country for the couture shows in Milan."

Listlessly, Justin replied, "You think? I don't see Izzy up there either."

Tripp's mouth formed a thin line and he said, "I wasn't looking for Izzy."

"Oh really?"

"I just really like-" Tripp glanced at the screen, "Marchesa."

They were pathetic, the pair of them.

"I for one think you'd look a-mazing in that dress, Campbell," arms folded across Justin's chest, a face nuzzling into his neck like an overenthusiastic dog. Tripp turned a scathing glare up at their owner. Joe, from the sound of it. And the flashy timepiece digging into his neck. And the overwhelming scent of designer cologne.

Plus Justin could hear Kendall banging around in the kitchen, attempting to figure out how to do something that would probably end up giving all of them food poisoning. He was a terrible cook.

"Could you- get off?" Justin demanded, his voice sounding strangled. If anything, Joe's grip tightened.

He was _exactly _like a puppy; hyperactive, constantly bouncing around and touching everything and making noise just to grab attention. Justin had absolutely no idea how Joe's brothers had put up with him for years and years of touring.

If he ever got trapped in an enclosed space with Joe Lucas, he thought suicide might begin looking like an attractive option. Except that was a lie, because he kind of didn't really mind. In a way, Joe reminded him of his younger brother Max.

Justin missed him. Justin missed his entire fucking family. Which was ridiculous, when they were just a subway ride away.

Everyone except for Alex.

"C'mon, losers," Joe chirped, finally releasing Justin's neck, "Pasta's ready."

Tripp began, "Did Kendall-"

"I didn't touch it!" the blond yelled irritably from the kitchen, "Goddamn asshole."

"Okay, you know what? I just have a healthy appreciation for _life_, and eating _your _cooking isn't exactly good for longevity."

Behind the couch, Joe was fussing with their extensive CD collection, rearranging everything so that it was in alphabetical order. He did that a lot, which was weird, considering Joe was one of the least organized people Justin knew. What he suspected, but never voiced, was that it was a habit Joe had gotten from his brother. But Justin tried never to talk about Nick, and in return, Joe rarely mentioned Alex. It was how they stayed sane.

"If you keep talking, I'm going to cut your longevity right here and now," Kendall threatened, brandishing a whisk towards Tripp's face. Justin sighed.

His roommates were idiots.

Right before he ventured over to the counter, he fumbled for the remote and turned off the fashion channel.

It was that or throw the damned thing right through the TV.

Normally, dinner was kind of a casual affair, because living together didn't automatically imply spending a whole lot of time with each other. Of course, they all _did_ spend way too much time cooped up in the apartment, usually with one another, because venturing outside was kind of like venturing into a mine field.

Not so much for Justin; the worst thing he had to deal with was his sister's name painted across the city on different size billboards. But it wasn't like he had to hear her voice drifting over crackly radios from falafel stands or he had to see her actual image up on those billboards. It was just her name, familiar to him as his own. Which was…well, Justin didn't like to think much about it. Any of it.

Point was, if they had dinner together at all, it was usually gathered around the overly large televisions with slices of pizza precariously balanced in one hand and wildly swinging wii remotes in the other. It was truly rare for them to all gather around the dining room table Joe had picked out for the sake of propriety, even though the rest of them didn't even give a fuck about what kind of 'image' they were giving to guests. Who usually included strings of intoxicated girls and boys, and the occasional friend. The only parents who ever swung by were Joe's, which was probably why he'd been the one so concerned with the stupid table.

No one ever asked why Justin's parents never visited, even though they lived in the same goddamned city.

Anyway, eating at the table was unusual, and that's probably why it was such a big deal when right as they'd all settled down at the table, not even paying attention to the niceties and all grabbing for the bowl containing Joe's fantastic pasta, the doorbell rang.

"Not it," Joe declared, reclaiming the bowl for his own. He even went so far as to cradle it in his arms.

"Are we expecting anybody?" Tripp asked.

"Maybe Oliver locked himself out again. I think he went to go try to hang himself in Central Park," Joe suggested, already digging his fork into the bowl without even bothering to throw it on a paper plate. Rockstars could do that, Justin supposed.

Everyone looked to Kendall who crossed his arms, and eyed the noodles Joe was sucking down, "Dude, I'm _not _getting the door."

Which meant everyone's gazes swiveled to Justin, who frowned, "No."

Kendall whipped out the whisk he'd been threatening Tripp with earlier and smacked him across the knuckles. Which was kind of why Justin knew better than to sit next to Kendall Knight for dinner, but there hadn't been any other free seats, "Go."

"Dude," Justin tried to wrestle the whisk away from him, which only earned him another smack on the knuckles. Power hungry jerk.

Zeke was at the door. Zeke was at the door holding his cell phone out towards Justin like it was diseased and accusing, "It's your dad. He says you haven't been picking up."

Justin sighed. Of course he hadn't been picking up. He hadn't wanted to talk. That was kind of the point. Reluctantly, he took the cell from Zeke, who proceeded to glare and inform him that he _could not _be getting eighty thousand calls a day from Mr. Russo, because he had finals coming up an actual job and he wasn't Justin's secretary thank you very much.

Which Justin knew perfectly well; he'd barely spoken to Zeke in years, except on occasions like this, when his family couldn't seem to grasp how _not _okay this was.

"Hello?" he barked into the phone, irritated.

"Justin!" Jerry cried, exuberant as ever, "I've been trying to get in touch with you all day. You- are coming to dinner this Friday."

"No. I'm not."

"Yes, you are," his father replied patiently, seemingly unaware that Zeke was trying to burn a very large hole in Justin's chest with his eyes, "I promised your mother."

"Yeah, but you didn't consult me first, and I'm busy."

"Busy doing what, exactly?"

Well, damn.

"I promised I'd help Tripp out with something."

"Is Tripp the one with the hair?"

"They've all got hair, dad."

"Yeah, but I mean the one with _heavy metal_ hair. The one who used to be in _Iron Weasel_."

"Yes, dad. That's Tripp. And I've got to help him with-"

"Stop lying to your father, Russo!" the boy in question yelled from the dining room. Fucker.

"Apparently, I'm free," Justin said after a beat where his father was obviously trying to pretend he hadn't heard a thing, "But I'm still not coming."

"Alex will be there."

"I don't think you get it, dad, I'm not- wait, what?"

"I said, your sister is coming all the way from Timbuktu or wherever she's off to this week, and your mother and I would appreciate it a whole hell of a lot if you sucked it up and came to one family dinner."

"I- uh. Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, I said okay. One dinner can't hurt."

"Thanks, Justin. At least now I can get your mother off my back."

Quietly, Justin hung up and handed the phone back to Zeke. He wanted to thank his friend for dragging himself all the way over from NYU, but he couldn't quite find the words. Zeke gave him a disgusted lurk and hurried down the stairs, away. That's how most of Justin's friendships had been going of late, outside of his roommates. People only had to talk to him for a few minutes to see that he wasn't- right. He wondered sometimes if it was branded on his forehead now. 'Sinner' in big block letters.

"Hurry your ass up or you're not getting any pasta," Joe yelled from the other room, laughing, banging his fork and knife against the wooden table so that the sound echoed across the room. Tripp and Kendall joined in, and soon the three of them were creating their very own symphony with a cutlery orchestra.

Despite himself, Justin smiled.

* * *

He hadn't always been in love with his little sister.

Alex was many things, not least of all charming, and she had a way of getting under his skin in seconds, like he had no defenses at all. At first, he'd thought it was a sibling thing, that because they were related, because he loved her so much, he was susceptible to her particular brand of insanity.

She was spoiled and obnoxious, and she could burp louder than Max and Justin combined, but it was all part of the terrain. It was all part of _Alex_, and Justin had known her almost his entire life. She was also, Justin realized while they were pulling off one scheme or another, breathtakingly beautiful. But he pretended it was okay to think that, because hey, he thought his mother was beautiful too.

His mother didn't give him a boner, but he tried to be optimistic anyway. He was a teenage boy, and having these kinds of…problems…pop up at random was natural. He just tried not to sit too close to Alex when they were watching TV, was all.

Later, in high school, someone- Zeke, maybe- mentioned that Alex had an uncanny knack for getting Justin into trouble, which was true. He told himself it was because he was a loyal brother, and he had to make sure she didn't get hurt. Except, the more she conned him into doing stupider and stupider things, the more Justin began to think that maybe he was trying to _impress _her. Which wasn't- right. He tried to distance himself, just a little. He tried to join extracurriculars, especially after Alex began bounding around the house in her tiny ass cheerleading outfit. It didn't help. Nothing helped. Eventually, Justin resolved that he had to get some distance.

He applied to UCLA for college.

Only, Alex found the application. Alex found the application and she nearly cried, and she begged him not to send it out.

So he didn't.

When Justin started NYU in the fall, Alex began to practically live at his dorm. Sometimes, she would stay the night. She would crawl into his bed when his heater was out, claiming all his body warmth for her own.

And that's when Justin's suspicions solidified, when his sister was warm, pressed up against the lines of his body, all soft curves and sweet smelling hair.

The next morning he kicked her out and told her not to come back. She was interrupting his studies.

Only, it might not have been her, because by the end of his junior year Justin had lost his scholarship. He dropped out, telling his parents he was taking a year off for mental health. By then, Alex had already started up her own line with a few friends from FIT. They took the nation by storm. His sister was famous.

They hadn't stopped talking, not completely. Even though Alex had discontinued parading around his room in boy shorts and a camisole, it wasn't like they'd cut off all communication. But, she was busy. He was avoiding her. Eventually, phone tag stopped being a game and began to get annoying.

Now it was like this. He hadn't talked to her in a month. He hadn't seen her in six, since her last local show.

Justin surfed the fashion channel for hours, trying to get a glimpse of Alex, and none of it mattered. He was a sick fuck. He alienated his family, he'd given up on his education, and he was basically bereft.

All because of his sister, the whirlwind. The girl he loved.

The girl he was going to see on Friday night.

He was so screwed.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter, but for a reason. And wow, guys! I'm actually kind of shocked I got any reviews on this at all, much less alerts, so I want to thank you! Soooo, next chapter will be either Kendall or Tripp. Not sure yet. Please review!


	3. Feeling You're Drawn To Someone

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Three_

By: Jondy Macmillan_  
_

_

* * *

-Kendall-_

* * *

Kendall couldn't pinpoint the exact day that everything began to fall apart. He'd tried, over and over again, wanting to know the where and the when and the how of lifelong friendships coming to an end.

He'd never really thought about the future, but he'd always imagined the guys would be by his side. Then suddenly, they weren't.

There was something tragic about it, really. It was the stuff sad songs were made of, but when it had gone down, they'd all barely blinked. Maybe they hadn't realized that this was _it, _or maybe they'd known and just hadn't cared. He liked to think it was the former. His friends have never been callous, or cruel. Just…kind of oblivious, sometimes And obliviously, they'd grown up, moved on, and left Kendall sitting in the dust.

The funniest part was that all this time Kendall had thought they _needed_ him. To hold the group together. To make everything run smoothly. To make their lives complete.

Except it was the opposite. He was holding them all back. From their dreams. From their lives. From being _great_.

One day he'd walked into the studio at Rocque Records to find the three guys he'd spent his life defending, laughing with, giving his complete adulation to staring at him expectantly. They were banded together in this one thing, in breaking the news to him. Big Time Rush came to a quick, unexpected end.

They'd been at the pinnacle of their popularity, but that hadn't mattered. Logan had been accepted at Harvard, his dream school. He was going to become an astrophysicist, analyzing the movements and patterns of stars, but first he had to pore over textbooks while drinking coffee at hip Cambridge shops and forget he'd ever been famous. Carlos was going to become a full-time actor, starring in hit movies and meeting all the hottest girls.

And James, well, James had been the only one who wanted to sing in the first place. He was going solo.

Which left Kendall where? He'd let his dreams slip through his fingers a long time ago, all for them. No one wanted an out of practice popstar on their hockey team. And being in a boy band was a certain kind of fame, the kind that only mattered to the teenage girls who'd idolized him.

Soon enough, he'd slip into the realm of obscurity.

It happened like this: James got big, quick. Instead of topping the charts as the next pop sensation, he surprised everybody, converting his image into this John Mayor-esque crooner, this sweet-voiced boy with a little bit of a dangerous edge, who sang songs about beauty and catastrophe and heart break. In interviews, he always sounded solemn, he always had his serious business face on without a hint of the guy who'd turned himself _mangerine _colored only a few years prior. James Diamond, the hockey player from Minnesota disappeared completely, replaced by James Diamond the heart-throb, the consummate professional.

He was a stranger with the face of a friend.

Kendall couldn't even stand to look at him. It didn't matter. The bastard still haunted his nightmares every single damned night.

The radio crackled with James's familiar voice, inviting him to wake up and greet the world. Kendall buried his face in his pillow. He'd always been the morning person, the one who was excited to meet the sunlight and the scent of coffee before bounding off to the rink because they were so going to _own _their next game. James was the one who'd hated the slow crawl from his bed, his bat-cave of silk sheets and warm down comforter. Kendall always theorized that the reason he spent so long in the bathroom in the mornings wasn't because he cared so very much about his appearance, but because he'd try to drown himself in the shower until he was fully awake, because he had to brush his hair ninety times before the bleariness of sleep dissipated. Kendall used to think a lot about why James was the way he was.

That was _before_, when he saw his friend every day, and not through the glass filter of a television.

Footsteps were beginning to echo around the apartment. The scent of pancakes wafted beneath his door; that would be Justin. He always made the best pancakes, and he was an early riser. They all were, really; they'd had it conditioned into them from days and weeks and years on tour, but Joe, Tripp, and Oliver liked to pretend they were rebels, to grab that last fantastic dream.

Groaning, Kendall slammed his palm over the snooze button, cutting James off mid-chorus. It was agonizing, constantly hearing his voice, but never hearing a word directed toward him. Although…okay, that might have been Kendall's fault. James had struggled to keep in touch with him, to slip conversations in between photo shoots and gigs in Tokyo, interviews on late night TV and charity galas. He tried his hardest.

_Kendall_ had always been the one constant in their group, which was why it was so weird when he'd been the first of them to lose touch. A small, mean part of him didn't understand why it was _that _shocking. His friends had gone turncoat, but they still wanted monthly phone calls? Right, not happening.

Muscles stiff, Kendall climbed out of bed, relishing the blessed silence afforded by the apartment, towering so high over the city even the constant melody of taxi horns and tourist cameras was drowned by the altitude. Sunlight hit his body in square patches, highlighting the places he'd grown lean, too skinny, ribs protruding. He didn't understand why he was always losing weight; he survived on a steady diet of take out carbs and beer.

His mom said it was depression, but his mom knew _next to nothing_ about Kendall anymore. He wasn't depressed, and he wasn't wasting away like some waifish maiden from a storybook, yearning for a prince who would never come, thank you very much.

Padding out to the kitchen barefoot, in low slung pajama pants, the tall boy winced at the chilly tile beneath his feet, at the brush of cold air across his chest. Justin turned when he entered, a dry grin curving his lips, "Does this mean I have to make some for you?"

"You know it," Kendall grunted, sliding easily onto one of the stools by the counter.

"Got any plans for today?" his roommate queried, pouring freshly mixed batter onto a sizzling pan. It was an honest question. Unlike Tripp and Oliver, Kendall didn't have to worry about the trappings of being a popstar any longer. Unlike Joe, he didn't need to keep up the appearances of _living_ for his family, spending time in public places and going to parties where he'd be openly photographed. And he wasn't trying to discreetly catch up on college studies, like Justin, who claimed he was on vacation for the year, but spent a lot of time locked in his room, learning all the things he'd need to know before his triumphant return to NYU.

Kendall had very little responsibility, and very little motivation. He needed to hit the rink sometime soon; it had been too long since he'd practiced, especially now that the peewee league he coached was in their off season.

"I might go skating," he said noncommittally.

"Cool," drawled Justin, who the blond had once taken out to Rockefeller only to watch as he fell on his ass at least forty consecutive times. The native New Yorker had no interest in athleticism, or sports, which was just as well. Kendall wasn't looking for a new team.

Tripp, Joe, and Oliver trickled out of their bedrooms around noon, yawning and demanding pancakes and plopping in a row onto the couch, waiting to be served. They were such lazy assholes.

"Dude, do any of you want to go to this party at the Met tonight?" Tripp asked, sitting cross legged in nothing but an unzipped hoodie and boxers, his hairless chest dotted with goosebumps from the cold air. He picked up an invitation and waved the thing around, only ceasing after Justin had delivered a stack of steaming hot flapjacks to the coffee table.

"The opera house?" Joe's face scrunched up in confusion, trying to snatch the paper from the smaller boy's fingertips.

"No, the museum, doofus. It's some charity thing to save the whales or prevent obesity in children or fuck it, I don't even know. But I heard there's going to be some live entertainment. I haven't been to a concert in _ages_."

"You give concerts all the time," Justin remarked, eyes narrowing as Joe accidentally drizzled syrup off the side of his plate, "Be careful!"

"Yes_, mom_," Joe mumbled, wiping at the mess with the hem of his battered old t-shirt.

"Who's playing?" Oliver asked tiredly, black circles like bruises beneath his eyes. He'd been stressing too much, too often about that girl he was in love with. Hannah Montana, with her bedazzled clothes and her tilted blue eyes and her slow Southern twang. Kendall wished for a moment he had it that easy, to be in love with some girl instead of the most unattainable person in the world. A rush of guilt followed; every one of his roommates had their own problems, their own circumstances. Oliver's situation wasn't really any better than his own.

Even if it seemed that way.

"Not sure," Tripp replied, studying the curlicue calligraphy on the face of the invite, "It just says 'surprise guests'. And going to concerts and giving them are not the same thing, dude."

Justin rolled his eyes and chose not to answer, instead watching the guys eat with pursed lips, like the coffee table guardian.

"I'm in," Joe cheered, loving every opportunity to score free champagne. Kendall nearly smiled at it, nearly reached over to ruffle his friend's hair.

He kept his hands to himself.

"Pass," Justin interjected, "All I want is a quiet night with some movies. I heard there's a film festival in town."

"What are you, eighty?" Tripp groaned, carding a hand through his thick brown hair, "Live it up a little."

"Easy for you to say," Justin grumbled, sounding every bit like the old man he'd been accused of being, "You know, life isn't all about parties."

"It isn't?" Tripp's mouth fell open in mock-surprise, and he made his eyes go humorously wide, "Do tell, Grandmaster Russo. _Enlighten _me."

"You- are a douchebag," Justin's shoulders sagged, his dark eyelashes fluttering shut for a moment, "Fine, whatever. I'll go to the stupid party. Am I going to be your _date_?"

"I don't know. You planning on putting out?"

Justin rolled his eyes and muttered something about living with immature bastards.

"What about you, K-dog?" Joe blinked up at Kendall, stuffing his mouth full of pancake, "You're going to come, right?"

Kendall liked Joe, a lot. He was a little thick, a little dense, and extremely concerned with the state of his hair.

James would love him.

Kendall _did_ love him. Joe was the closest thing he'd found to a best friend since BTR had broken up. Sometimes, in the right light, Kendall thought maybe Joe was almost enough to make him forget about James- but then he recalled a gajillion different hockey games, a million different angles of James's smile, and that one drunken night not long before the band had dissolved where James had leaned in- and Kendall hadn't.

It had been the worst mistake of his life.

Plus Joe kind of had his own issues, and the last thing Kendall wanted was to get involved, make them worse. Because no matter how much he loved Joe, and no matter how much Joe loved him back, there were always two people who just meant _more_.

"Sure. I'm down," the blond replied, because they expected him to agree. He never said no, to anything. It was kind of his trademark.

Even if the last thing he wanted to do was go to a party.

"How 'bout you, Oken?" Tripp leaned into Oliver's side. He'd been mutely staring at the TV, even though the screen was blank and powered off, absently chewing his pancakes.

"I'm going. Record company's making me," the slightly taller boy sighed. From Kendall's vantage point, Tripp and Oliver looked like twins. The same haircut, the same inclination of their heads as Tripp muttered something into Oliver's ear. Probably, something like 'suck it up', knowing Tripp.

"Great. So we're all going. Fantastic," Kendall clapped his hands together unenthusiastically, and peered at them all over the back of the couch.

They really were the saddest group he'd ever seen in his life.

* * *

Charity galas, as a rule, were incredibly boring. Back when Kendall had been _somebody_, he'd tried to avoid them at all costs, as they usually involved three of his least favorite things; suits, small talk, and fake smiles for the paparazzi. Being cast back into the realm of anonymity meant he'd only had to pose like some kind of life size Ken doll twice tonight, but he was still forced to into a constricting suit by Joe, his fashion guru, and to make _excessive_ amounts of small talk with these people whose circles he'd once run in.

How much could he honestly say about the fucking weather? It was New York in spring. Half the time the sky was blue and the streets were sweltering, and the other half was spent running from virtual downpours and stepping in one too many puddles. Why everyone kept commenting on how _lovely_ it all was, like it hadn't been this way last spring and they wouldn't see a repeat next year, was beyond him.

The party was in the room that held the famed Temple of Dendur; gigantic pieces of some Egyptian rock placed in the midst of a glassed-in atrium. The lighting was sparse, dependant on the starlight and candles placed strategically on tables and spare flat surfaces. There were manmade streams to navigate around, and graffiti from ancient explorers to peer upon, but no one was really there for the _culture_.

At least the food was good. Surviving off Joe's pasta, Justin's pancakes, Oliver's PBJs, Tripp's tacos, and his own mediocre grilled cheese sandwiches meant he hadn't exactly been living like a king. Maybe a frat boy.

More often than not, some sort of takeout was involved in their nights, but even good gourmet food wasn't quite so amazing after sitting in a car with a delivery guy for half an hour.

Tripp and Oliver were continually barraged by starlets and fans who wanted to talk about their _next career move _or _if they would take up acting_. That was the good thing about being retired; Kendall had to fend off a question or three, but mostly people avoided him. They were scared his bad luck might rub off on them, like the shine off a new penny. Joe was getting the same treatment, but he was more charismatic than Kendall, better trained at being rueful and charming. People expected him to laugh good naturedly and discuss how he'd bounce back eventually. He had the connections, the looks, the right attitude.

Kendall had never had much use for charm, unless it involved getting him his way. He had no reason to be nice to his old patrons or the celebutantes who'd abandoned him the minute they'd received news that his band was going under. The only person there he even _attempted_ to sweet talk was the cocktail waitress into grabbing him some olives.

It went fine, like that, for a while. He was getting used to being invisible, to moving through the crowd without a single voice reaching him. He was perfectly content that way.

Until one voice rang out, like a bullet piercing his chest, the only voice that had ever mattered.

Just for a second, everything went completely still, like it did during a summer rainstorm, a monsoon that muted all noise and movement and breath. Then the crowd began whispering in awe. The gala had scored themselves some big entertainers.

Maybe it was a mark of how close Kendall had gotten with his roommates that he felt their presence before any of them said a word, before Oliver wrapped an arm around his shoulders and guided him to one of the immaculately decorated tables and said, "Oh man. I _hate _this song."

"Really? I kind of-" Justin asked, settling himself on a plush chair, only to receive one of Tripp's elbows to the stomach, "-oh. Oh! I mean, yeah, it's so- _poorly produced_."

"Real smooth," Joe intoned under his breath, glaring at the dark eyed boy.

"Guys, shut up. It's not a big deal," Kendall was saying, but he sounded strange, like he was someone else. His roommates didn't buy it for a second. They were idiots, but they weren't stupid.

For the length of the song, they sat in stony silence, knowing it would be rude to bolt from the museum like they were being chased by a pack of stampeding bulls, but prepared to do so anyway if Kendall led.

He wouldn't. No matter what his mother or sister said, hiding out in an apartment in the middle of New York City wasn't running, not when he was the one who'd been abandoned in the first place. Kendall had never run from anything a day in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

The song ended, and James, tall, shining, and enigmatic in the mood lighting cast by the moon and the candles, stood. Immediately he was surrounded by a posse of unfamiliar girls, a leggy supermodel coming to cling to his arm. A new artist took the stage, ready to wail out some sappy ballad about finding and losing love. Fitting.

Kendall stood, finally able to exhale, finally ready to leave.

Once upon a time, James would have been able to sense his presence in a room almost instinctively. They'd been glued at the hip practically since birth. Every memory Kendall had was painted with shades of James's laugh, his dancing eyes, his smile. But the one time it counted- he shook his head. It wasn't supposed to be this hard; letting go.

Maybe they were still somehow synched, brain waves moving in time, because the moment Kendall turned to leave, the moment he scooped his blazer from the stiff back of his chair- that was the moment James's eyes met his.

In seconds, he'd made it across the room, past the ancient hieroglyphs and his milling fans; nymphets with bright red lipstick and old woman looking to rekindle the spark of their youth and young hipster men who wanted to congratulate James Diamond on capturing the fragile art of _living _with notes and lyrics and poignancy.

"Kendall?" he demanded, and his voice sounded choked. The gunshot click clack of the supermodel's kitten heels announced that his posse had arrived behind him.

Wordlessly berating himself, Kendall pasted on his biggest, phoniest smile and turned back towards his ex-best-friend, "Hi."

The taller boy's eyes scanned Joe, Tripp, Oliver, and Justin, sliding over their features, their clothes, and the way they stood defensively behind their friend. With a hint of something Kendall couldn't quite identify, James joked, "Starting another boy band?"

Three of them were pop rock gods in their own right, and there was no way he could tell that Justin couldn't hold a tune if his life depended on it. It was an easy mistake to make. That is, if he'd never met Kendall before in his life.

"I'm done with singing," Kendall retorted, knowing that his voice was laced with impetuous anger, but not caring. James, the real James, the one who hadn't become this phony industry bigwig would know that Kendall had never even thought of taking the stage without James, Carlos, and Logan backing him.

"That's- a shame. You always were the best of us."

"Yeah, well," Kendall shoved his hands in his pockets, "Fat lot of good that did me."

"Way to sound bitter, man," Joe hissed in his ear, breath warm. Tripp kicked him lightly in the shin, and Kendall winced. They wanted him to man up, and he _so _wasn't in the mood.

James, for his part, maintained his bogus smile. It probably looked real to everyone else in the room, but Kendall could see that his teeth were grit the way they always were before he was about to body check someone in hockey. It was nice to know some things hadn't changed, "You look good, dude."

The blond nodded mutely. He didn't feel good. He felt like James was sucking all the air from the room.

"We were- on our way out," Joe declared, wrapping an arm around Kendall's shoulders, saving him from saying anything else.

Except Kendall wasn't having any of it. He shrugged off Joe's arm and said, "No, you know what? You guys go mingle. I'm just going to- catch some fresh air. It was- nice seeing you, James."

Without another word, he stalked off, knowing they were staring after him.

It felt kind of nice to be the one who left first.

Of course, that didn't last for long. He was perched on the steps of the museum fiddling with an emergency pack of cigarettes he hadn't touched in over a year when James found him.

"Please tell me those are not the same ones we bought at the convenience store in Yorba Linda," was his greeting as he settled primly beside Kendall, swiping the pack from his fingers. He tapped a cigarette out and lit it in one quick, graceful movement, pulling a pack of matches from a hidden pocket in his leather jacket.

"It might be," Kendall replied, inkling his head as James blew smoke rings.

"Logan and Carlos are worried about you. Your _mom _is worried about you. She says you've moved in with these guys she's never met. Said they might be hedonistic Satan worshippers-"

"Mom didn't say that," Kendall snorted, watching speeding traffic and throngs of tourists passing by. The city was so busy this time of year.

James passed him the cigarette with a raised eyebrow, "So that guy was Joe Lucas, right? From JONAS?"

"Yeah."

"Are you two like-" the dark haired boy made a rude gesture with his fingers.

"What? No! We're not- like that."

"Oh," for a long stretch of time, James stayed silent, and then, "Is there- are you like that with anyone?"

"Nope," Kendall confessed quietly, "You?"

"Nah," James grinned, "Why, you haven't been reading about me in US Weekly?"

"No."

His once-friend's face fell, "You don't even try to keep up with my life, do you? Or Logan's? Or Carlos's? Do you even care what's going on with us?"

"That's not-"

"It feels like it is. What the hell happened with you, Kendall? It's like you've fallen off the face of the Earth."

The smaller boy sucked smoke deep into his lungs, trying to breathe deep enough to asphyxiate himself. He hadn't been prepared for- this. For James being so close.

"I've been busy," he finally exhaled, lying through his teeth.

"Busy. Right. Look, word on the street is Gustavo's looking for new talent. He'd love to have you back. You know he would. You could be famous again-"

"I don't fucking care about being _famous_, James."

"Then what do you care about?"

You, Kendall wanted to say. It's always been you.

Instead he stood, flicking the cigarette onto the sidewalk, "I've got to go."

"Kendall, wait," James grabbed at his wrist, and Kendall could feel electricity jumping off the other boy's fingertips. He couldn't _stand _it.

"Later, dude," he apologized, wrenching his hand away. He began to walk, only pausing to look back as he turned the corner. James was still standing on the steps of the museum, staring after him, luminous in the moonlight.

Kendall wished he hadn't messed up so royally. That it wasn't too late.

Which didn't change the fact that it was.

He'd had a chance, once. Two months before the demise of Big Time Rush, there had been an industry party. The guys had gotten drunk, because that was what they did when there was free booze and not enough pretty girls. Well, to be fair, they probably would've been trashed had girls been part of the equation as well, but it was easier to imagine that none of it would have happened if they'd been distracted by fluttering eyelashes and a whiff of perfume.

At some point, Kendall had broken down. He told James, the thoughts that had been going through his mind, the way James made his jeans tight and his heart beat much too fast. Liquor made his tongue loose and his inhibitions drop to zero.

And then, like some kind of miracle, James had leaned in, his eyes aglow, his lips _right there_. Kendall had wanted him for so long it felt like a part of who he was.

Only thing was, he couldn't- take advantage. It was the one time Kendall Knight decided not to take a risk.

James never brought it up again, but- sometimes Kendall thought that was the moment that had ended his career.

* * *

A/N: Horrible? Horrible, I know. I didn't mean for it to be so horrible! Please review, and tell me if you didn't think it was horrible? Pretty please?


	4. And Losing All Control

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Four_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: So I'm not totally sure where I'm In The Band takes place. Like state wise? If anyone knows, fill me in!

* * *

-_Tripp-_

* * *

Being famous was fucking weird.

Like, it had always been the goal- and man, talk about fairytale endings. In retrospect, Tripp realized he'd had some friggin' balls, somehow transforming his childhood dream of playing for Iron Weasel into a reality. Who said persistence didn't pay off? Sometimes, he looked back and thanked his lucky stars he hadn't been served a restraining order instead of a job.

Anyway, it had all worked out. He'd put his life's blood into giving that band a comeback, and he'd struggled like hell to keep them together. They'd had a few good years.

But when he was offered the chance to go solo, well, maybe it was cowardly. Maybe he was a quitter. He'd chosen his own career over his friends. He became a household name, all by himself. Tripp Campbell, international sensation. Not Tripp Campbell, lead guitarist for Iron Weasel.

If asked, he wouldn't be able to say when the latter had stopped being enough.

Then again, he'd never been able to nail down when being known as Tripp Campbell, no suffix needed, had come up lacking. After all, he'd wanted nothing more than this; fame, and fortune, and knowing he was going to go down in musical _history_ since he was old enough to form words.

Still, the shame of that decision stayed with him. He didn't like thinking that betrayal was something he was capable of.

It really bit him in the ass, too. Tripp had lived for Guns N' Roses, for Hendrix, for Metallica, but no one wanted a rock musician without a band. And no matter how many he auditioned, none of them were good enough to replace Derek, or Burger, or Ash. It was _karma_.

Still, he made do. He'd gone a little more pop than rock, he sang songs about girls instead of punching stuff, and he had to throw out his best pair of Levi's in favor of some couture brand that came pre-ripped, but it wasn't terrible. He was topping the charts, and that was all that mattered.

He could almost forget that once he'd been a part of a band that was more like a family.

Of course, it didn't help that he had a constant reminder.

Izzy never forgave him for dumping Iron Weasel. She kept harping that he'd ditched his _dream_, and did Tripp have any idea what she would give to be half so lucky, to have everything she'd ever wanted? And yeah, Tripp had a pretty good idea that Izzy Fuentes was the kind of girl who would give up all her classic rock LPs plus a piece of her soul just to record a single album. She would do _anything_.

Anything other than accept help from a dirty sellout traitor who forgot his roots.

Nothing he said or did would persuade Izzy that he could land her the hookups, the gigs, the recording deal she so fervently desired. When he sent an agent her way, she slammed the fucking door in his face. Tripp was lucky she didn't do the same to him, but out of stubbornness or charity, she allowed him to maintain their friendship. As long as he didn't broach the subject of her music career, she'd talk to him.

Barely.

There was nothing he could say that would change her mind. No magic spell that would move her.

And he was lucky, god, so lucky that she hadn't given up on him yet. Tripp didn't think he'd be able to take it if she did. She was _everything_.

It was cliché and lame and the stuff that inspired every one of his stupid love songs, and he could never say a word about it. It would be awkward, telling her he loved her, out of the blue. After so many years of treating her like the little sister he'd never wanted, finding out was like a bucket of freezing cold water to the face.

Which didn't change the fact that one day, she'd turned around and smiled at him, stealing his breath away. He wasn't sure if he'd ever gotten it back. At night he'd listen to his exhalations, air whooshing in and out of his lungs, and it would sound foreign. Unfamiliar. Like the rhythm had changed.

After high school graduation, Izzy had gotten accepted into Columbia's music program. She was the reason Tripp had moved to New York. Not that she could ever know.

The funny part was, it was easy to pretend none of it existed. To let himself fade into the alcohol, the glitz and glamour of being _someone_.

For a while, he milked it, doing ridiculous things for no good reason at all. He let himself be spotted and then ran away from the paparazzi for laughs, got in fistfights with aspiring actors at trendy restaurants, and swam in several hotel fountains because, hell, if Bruce Wayne could do it, so could Tripp Campbell. He made himself infamous.

Except acting like a douche pushed Izzy further away, until she was almost out of reach.

Okay, actually, it was only when she banned him from coming to her first gig at some ramshackle little bar in Alphabet City because he had a media circus for an entourage that he _realized_ things had to change, but the point is, he got it. He straightened up his act real quick. Getting an apartment with a bunch of mopey musicians and one anal engineering major was the icing on the cake.

Sometimes though, he would let himself vanish beneath the mask of the old Tripp, the one who partied too hard and didn't give a shit about anybody.

Which brought him back to being famous, fading into the façade, and how it was all so fucking _weird. _

He was at a party. Well, party might be too strong a word. He was at a charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in that huge room that was part architectural marvel and part Frankensteined bits of some old Egyptian Temple.

These things were about as exciting as wakes.

He'd kind of conned his roommates into tagging along, and at first it hadn't been a total catastrophe. Well, alright, Kendall had looked like he'd rather skin a cat than make any more small talk, and Justin had been flapping around complaining about the total inaccuracy of the charity's aim to save the horned bullfrog or whatever because the animal wasn't even _endangered_ to anyone who would listen, but none of that was _bad_. And yeah, maybe Oliver's smile looked so fake it might as well have been plastic, but the kid was a train wreck, and that was less Tripp's problem and more Oken's publicist's.

Joe, at least, had been doing great.

Then everything had gone to hell. The first surprise singer had to be James Diamond, with his dopey smile and his killer pipes and his bedroom eyes directed straight at Kendall. Man, were they ever directed at Kendall. The second the dude lasered in on the blond, it had been all smolder, all the time. Tripp's roommate had melted like a popsicle in the sun. Fuck, he'd been looking like James like he _was _the sun.

Tripp had done his best to avoid a confrontation. He'd maneuvered Justin, Joe, and Oliver into a protective ring around their friend, kicked Kendall when he began to sound like an acidic-tongued moron, and even made a mild attempt to stop James from following the blond out to the steps of the Met. But when it came down to it, man, he'd only known Kendall for _six months_. He didn't want to get involved in something with so much history. No matter how strongly he wanted his friend to be happy, it wasn't his business.

Things spiraled downhill from there.

Kendall didn't return to the gala. James did, looking like someone had jacked his maserati.

Part of Tripp, the part his mom had raised right, wanted to go over there and comfort the kid. They were roughly the same age, they'd met a few times on the circuit, and hell, they were roughly going through the same shit- because no matter what Kendall said, it was obvious that James only had eyes for him.

But Tripp didn't know the details, and he didn't want to pry. He wasn't looking to complicate his life any more than it already was.

So he sought out that leggy redhead who'd been flirting with him for the better half of the evening, the half that had occurred before things had gone to shit. She was still wearing this gold dress, spilling out in all the right places, and better yet, she was dotty off champagne. The old Tripp wouldn't have even hesitated to take advantage of the situation.

And he tried to be the old Tripp. He tried so damned hard, busting his ass to be charming and witty and seduce the girl every which way he could. Until he realized he was a megastar, no effort required, and this girl's eyes weren't the right shade of brown. The only shade he wanted to see.

He spent the next hour or so chatting with her about what it was like to be an aspiring talent agent instead of the color of her lingerie, his topic of choice when it came to females. And it was kind of refreshing to hold a conversation that wasn't about himself, his nonexistent love life, or his sad-ass roommates. He almost felt like a real person.

Right up until Oliver and Justin ganged up on him.

"We've had enough," Oliver muttered, still smiling out the corner of his mouth in case anyone from US Weekly decided they hadn't quite gotten their money shot earlier.

"This event is totally fraudulent," Justin intoned, crossing his arms and trying to look tough. As the shortest of all his roommates, Tripp looked easy to intimidate, but he really, really wasn't, "It's time to leave."

"What about Joe?"

Justin made a face, "Lucas is off talking to some PR lady about a photo shoot he's supposed to do. I don't know, I think he's planning to stay a while."

He said it like he couldn't imagine why on earth anyone would want to stay. Which was funny, considering that Justin lived for museums. He tried to stare Tripp down some more, but the smaller boy met his eyes defiantly and shrugged, "If you guys want to book it, that's fine with me."

"You drove," Oliver accused, his phony smile morphing into a gigantic scowl. Out of the corner of his eye, Tripp saw a camera flash.

"Yeah, man, if we go down in the subways looking like this, we're going to get mugged," Justin agreed with a bit of a squeak at the very concept, gesturing at his getup. He'd mentioned once that he'd worn a suit for most of his senior year of high school because his sister had told him it made him look professional, _presidential, _but it was hard tale to swallow. Maybe it was because the outfit belonged to Joe, who was about Russo's height, but more compact, or maybe it was because the duds were higher quality than anything Justin had ever worn in his life, but there was no mistaking the dark haired boy's discomfort.

"Take my keys," Tripp dug around in his pocket until he found 'em, offering them up on his index finger where they dangled, catching the moonlight.

"Are you sure?" Oliver frowned, dark eyes unreadable, "You don't let anyone drive your car. Ever."

"Yeah, well," Tripp shrugged. He didn't, normally, but he wasn't up to dealing with an argument that would indubitably end with his friends being whiney assholes and him caving anyway. This night had turned into disaster when all he'd wanted was a little fun. Why bother fighting, anymore?

Justin's expression mirrored Oliver's; a combination of confusion, concern, and slight annoyance, "How are you going to get home?"

"I'll walk. It's a nice night out."

And it was. Beyond the glass ceiling that housed the Temple of Dendur, Tripp could see the moon, full and bright like a guardian of the city, a small smattering of stars piercing the fog of light-pollution to hover cheerily over Central Park.

"You're- ridiculous," Oliver decided in this pseudo-serious voice that Tripp wasn't accustomed to. Oken had been playing it pretty close to the chest for most of the night, and it was really getting on his nerves. Oliver and Justin both, actually. He was used to their combination of neurotic and happy-go-lucky; to the air of sadness that surrounded them all. He didn't know what how to react when two of his friends had both resolved to clam up so tight it was hard to see past their curmudgeonly old-men acts. Like they were so world-weary that no one else could ever understand, and wasn't that the fucking reason they'd all moved in together? Because the five of them had an _understanding_.

Tripp shrugged again, not knowing what else to do. The leggy nymphet he'd been prying with champagne and laughter was still observing with studied interest, and it wasn't like Tripp could demand what their goddamned problem was in front of hundreds of industry bigwigs, rising starlets, movie producers, and Manhattan's most elite celebutantes.

Oliver and Justin exchanged a look that said too many things Tripp wasn't quite catching, and then fled the scene like a murder had just been committed. Good old solidarity.

He wanted to resent them for leaving him out of the loop, but he wasn't certain if he had the right to be judgmental when it came to things like friendship or loyalty. Derek, Ash, and Burger definitely wouldn't think so.

Tripp tried to get back into the conversation about networking and budding ambition, but the redhead was obviously so _over_ small talk, and she kept trying to lure him into the roped off sections of the museum. Fine art and artifacts apparently made her hot.

Tripp, not so much.

Okay, he'd allowed himself a fleeting thought about fucking against the case holding the shriveled up mummies, because _what a story_, but it was quickly followed by a whole string of thoughts about what a sick bastard he was.

He politely declined the girl's invitation.

Actually, getting out of the museum altogether was beginning to sound like a fantastic idea. He felt like if he stayed there long enough, they'd stuff him behind glass with the rest of the relics. He'd even get his own sign, 'Here lies the two faced popstar. His music was irrelevant. His cowardice was legendary.'

People would come and laugh, marveling at the guy who couldn't translate his own feelings into something tangible. Something real.

Fuck, he'd had too much champagne.

* * *

Interviewers often asked why Tripp had chosen New York City as his home base instead of Hollywood, the go-to hotspot for the young and hip.

Usually he fed them some line about how the city had helped foster modern rock and roll, how influential places like CBGB were to the music scene.

But the truth was, he loved the city. He thrived off the vibrancy, the way he could walk the streets at any given hour wearing a fucking clown costume if he so chose, and no one would really even blink. He loved the tiny hole in the wall restaurants lit with fairy lights and pubs glowing neon, the way they beckoned with dark arms but were so easily overlooked. When Izzy had first come to New York, right before Tripp had left Iron Weasel, it had been good. It had been better than good. They'd go for late night falafels at Mamouns and sit for hours in hookah bars, breathing in smoke like dragons and philosophizing about the world. They'd partied it up at the bars on Macdougal and St. Marks, flitting between five star events Iron Weasel was required to attend and keggers in Izzy's dorms. LA was amazing, but he found it hard to take the grittiness and edge of an urban jungle seriously when it was littered with palm trees, like some kind of Corona ad. But here, man…here all the shadows glittered, and all the lights were grimy, and everyone was constantly exchanging ideas and information like it was real currency. He'd learned the streets of Manhattan, knew shortcuts and back alleys and ways to avoid being recognized, even while a billboard with his face decorated Times Square.

He used that exact knowledge to make his way to the Upper West Side undetected, to find himself standing in front of Izzy's apartment building long past midnight. He wasn't sure what he was doing. All he knew was that it had been over a month since he'd heard his best friend's voice outside of songs on her MySpace page and YouTube videos of gigs he hadn't been invited to.

There was no doorman, only filthy looking intercoms and buttons worn down from decades and decades of fingertips. Tripp stared at the buzzer for a long time, trying to make a decision. If he buzzed up, Izzy would have no choice but to answer. Only then, her roommates, two toxic sluts that Tripp couldn't stand, would give her a lot of grief if he woke them, or interrupted their bedroom liaisons or something. On the other hand, if Tripp called, there was every possibility Izzy wouldn't answer. He was faced with the coward's way out or the possibility of _rejection_.

Tripp had never handled rejection well.

Still…he was a man. Almost. Kind of. He could do this.

He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Small and sleek, it felt so fragile in his hand. His fingers trembled as he punched in the speed dial on the screen. For the longest time, it rang and rang. The sound was shrill, spotted with static. No answer came.

There was no question that Izzy was up; she'd always been a night owl. Which meant she was screening his call, just like he'd expected.

Sure, there were a myriad of other possibilities. She could have left it on vibrate in another room. It could have died. She could be in the shower. The variations were endless. Which didn't change the way Tripp knew, in this gut-clenching, throat-constricting way that she was avoiding him. He was about ready to surrender when the other line clicked, and Izzy's hesitant, scratchy voice murmured, "Tripp?"

"Uh-" he cleared something from his throat, something so large it felt like his heart had jumped up there, "Uh, hi."

Flatly, she stated, "It's late."

"Yeah. Guess so."

"I'm asking why you're calling, dude," her tone was light, but she didn't sound amused.

"I dunno. I'm- downstairs."

"What?"

"I'm standing in front of your door."

"Tripp, what do you think you're-"

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, like a collision on the interstate, "I miss you. All the time, I miss you."

Izzy had nothing to say to that. He could hear her breathing, slow and steady, on the other end of the line, but her lack of response was- mortifying. Crushing. Scary as fuck.

"Iz?"

"Are you- drunk?" Izzy abruptly demanded, her voice pitching higher at the last word. In the background, he could hear noises, sounds. Her roommates definitely weren't sleeping, and was that a guy? He felt jealousy spike through him, white hot and ugly.

"I'm a little tipsy," Tripp admitted, teeth clenched, unapologetic, "Charity gala."

See? He went places and knew people too.

In the old days, she would have said something like, 'And you didn't snag any champagne for me?' But that was then. This was now.

Izzy sighed and said gruffly, "Dude, I think you should leave."

"But-"

"_Tripp_. It's late. Go home."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to ask why he had to be forcibly ejected from her life when the mystery man upstairs was allowed to stay, cozy in her apartment. Had he been replaced?

But he couldn't bring himself to rage, to battle with his oldest, closest friend. Because she didn't sound like the Izzy Fuentes whose eyes sparkled, whose painted lips breathed mischief and mayhem. She didn't sound like the girl he'd fallen in love with, his best bud, his partner-in-crime.

She sounded tired, and she wanted him to _leave_.

So he did.

* * *

Despite Justin's warning, he took the subway home. The night that had seemed so clear and bright had turned overcast and depressing. Or maybe that was just his mood.

It didn't matter. None of it fucking mattered, not anymore. Tripp wrenched the door to their apartment open, fully intent on falling into his bed and sleeping for a millennia, until scientists solved problems like unrequited love and how painful it was.

Only, there was Kendall, slumped on the couch, eyes glazed over as he watched late night talk shows. He reeked of cigarettes and booze, the latter probably from the half empty six pack sitting in front of him.

Warm beer, yum. Not.

"Mindless TV," Tripp intoned, dropping down beside the blond and grabbing a can of PBR. Shit, either Kendall's bank account was dwindling and they couldn't afford the good stuff or he kept some of that Minnesota mountain man heritage even in the midst of the big city, "Just what I need."

Except it wasn't, actually. Not at all.

The one thing he needed was halfway across Manhattan, pretending he didn't even exist.

* * *

A/N: Oh god, angst angst angst. It fits my mood so perfectly, and if you didn't expect it- well, honestly, the past three chapters of this story have been angst-a-licious. So…although I'm not such a huge fan of this chapter, possibly because it's been a while since I saw I'm In The Band, and I was having trouble pinning Tripp down. Also, I know some of you are like Kendall's chapter moved faster than the others because he saw James in person. But did it? Did it really? Nothing changed. Nothing happened that didn't happen in any of the others; boy moped about unrequited love that he thinks will not be returned. It just happened to actually move the timeline forward a little. This isn't the kind of story that's real heavy with the plot (which makes it therapeutic and fun to write), but I couldn't have everything happen the same exact way.

Next chapter, Joe! Finally. And then after that, things might turn around for the boys? Maybe. I'm not making any promises. Please review!


	5. In The Silence I Hear The Sound

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Five_

By: Jondy Macmillan

_

* * *

-Joe-_

* * *

It was a little known fact around the penthouse apartment Joe shared with four friends that he preferred to spend the night in Justin Russo's bed.

It wasn't a gay thing; although any question of whether Joe _was_ gay paled in comparison to his _real preoccupation_, the one that had driven him all the way across the country just to be spared having to incessantly _think _about it. If all Joe had to worry about was coming out, well, life would be a whole hell of a lot simpler.

He tried not to throw that thought out there into the world, though, 'cause he seriously doubted someone like, say, Kendall would appreciate having their inner turmoil marginalized that way.

Anyway, point was, Joe didn't do it because he wanted to get into Justin's pants. Justin was attractive, to be sure, but he didn't bat for Joe's _possible _team, and besides, both of their hearts resided elsewhere. Plus, if he _had_ been doing it based on sex appeal, Joe would've chosen Kendall's bed, because he liked the kid; his fierce determination and competitive spirit reminded him of home. But Kendall kicked and flailed in his sleep, and the last time Joe had tried to curl up under the blond's arm he'd had to nurse a black eye for over a week.

Justin was the next best thing.

Mostly, Joe liked the whole companionship angle. Justin had problems _freakishly_ similar to Joe's. It was nice, having someone to commiserate with, knowing he wasn't completely alone. It was nice to have a warm body to curl up next to. And, best of all, having someone to talk to right before bedtime was _distracting_.

He didn't do it _every night_, either. Just when he was feeling particularly forlorn. Who could even blame him? He'd grown up sharing a loft with his two brothers. He wasn't used to solitude. So yeah, most nights, he tried to stick it out and suffer the darkness and quiet of his room alone, sometimes staying out late at lounges and clubs, or sometimes dwelling in the living room with old eighties movies and whoever was around. If he had no choice but to lock himself in (on the rare occasion someone brought a girl home, and by rare, Joe meant it had happened like once, ever), he blasted his music and tried to drown out the world.

But if none of that worked, he fled to Justin's.

None of it was working tonight.

Only, see, over the past week, Justin had been all over the place. Joe knew he resented be dragged to the Charity gala on Tuesday, but that didn't really explain his spastic behavior. Justin resented a lot of things; hair in the shower drain, unwashed dishes, feet on the furniture. None of that had ever made him act like a douchebag, or shove Joe out of his bed and say things like, "I don't have the energy to snuggle."

Extremely offended, Joe retorted, "It is not _snuggling._"

"Yeah, it pretty much is."

"It is not," he sulked, allowing his lower lip to tremble theatrically.

"Joe," Justin sighed, "Look, I'm really stressed. Really, really stressed."

"Why?"

"None of your- I just am, okay?"

"Oh…'kay? But like, I'm a stress free environment," Joe explained seriously, "Mom always says having me around is like having a tranquility garden."

Justin rolled his eyes, "Your mother does not say that."

True. His mother had a lot to say about him, and none of it involved the world 'tranquil'…unless you counted that one time she joked about _needing _tranquilizers to deal with him. But Justin didn't need to know that, "No, I swear, it's totally true. I'm _zen_."

"I get that, but dude, I need you to be zen _elsewhere_."

Joe frowned. This was not going as planned, "Seriously, what's wrong?"

If he'd been talking to his little brother, Nick would have snapped and told him to leave it. Nick wouldn't have caved. Justin wasn't Nick. He was a little devious at times, but mostly he was soft, malleable. He wanted to believe in people, because he had a family where trust wasn't something easily given.

"You're relentless, you know that?"

"Mom might've mentioned that too," he replied cheekily, happy to have won.

Justin bit his lip and said, "I've got this…family dinner thing, tomorrow."

"Sweet, a home cooked meal? You're bringing home the leftovers, right?"

When the boy across from him narrowed his eyes, Joe figured this was an opportune time to shut up.

"Alex is going to be there."

"Ohhhh."

"Ohhhh? That's all you have to say?"

"Well, you told me not to say that sucks donkey dick in your presence anymore," Joe answered with a straight face.

Predictably, Justin shuddered, "Gyeh, that is so _unclean_."

"You don't have to do it literally," Joe muttered, but under his breath, so Justin wouldn't hear. That wasn't a discussion he wanted to get into. Man, all he really wanted to get into was Justin's bed, but if he was going through some kind of quarter life crises Right Fucking Now, Joe wasn't sure sticking around for it would be advisable.

"Alex used to sleep in my bed," Justin announced, like it was some big thing.

Joe shrugged. He'd slept in his brothers' beds all the time, like some ongoing game of musical chairs involving pillows and sheets and tangled feet, and no one ever got left out. He didn't see what was so unusual about that.

Although, now that he thought about it, maybe it would've been a different story if there'd been some Lucas _sisters_.

"…in college, I mean. She used to- and, I just don't think I can handle having to see her tomorrow if that's all I'm going to be thinking about tonight. If you're curled up against me and I keep imagining it's her."

"Dude," Joe ticked off a finger, "Did you just compare me to your little sister? She's like, five foot nothing. And a _girl_."

"You're both warm," Justin confessed, shame burning high on his cheeks, "Please, Joe. Just this once?"

"Yeah, whatever, fine," Joe harrumphed, because this was all just one big angst-fest he didn't want to get involved in. He carded a hand through his already disheveled hair and padded out to their makeshift man-den. He didn't think he could take the suffocating quiet in his room right now, even if it was well past one in the morning. Already Friday, really.

He felt bad, for Justin.

Joe knew things had been rough for him; how could they not have been? He had all these incestuous feelings and no one to tell, for years upon years. And then Joe had come along, and it was like they could start a we-love-our-younger-siblings-club together, still miserable, but not alone, anymore. Justin had been ecstatic, not to be the only one, and there was no way Joe had ever been able to find the words, to break it to him.

To tell him that even if Alex reciprocated his feelings, it would only get worse.

They were both hardwired to be big brothers, to protect and to love. To keep their siblings safe, no matter what. Sometimes Joe wondered if Justin realized that even if Alex found out, even if she was twisted enough to _want him _in return, it was going to _crush _him.

Because then he'd be faced with…well, everything. Society, his parents. Maybe even god, if he had faith. Joe had never asked about that. It was better not to know. Everything that ever mattered, stuff that Justin had probably pored over again and again and again in reference to himself would be put in an entirely new light. He'd have to start considering how things would affect _Alex_.

If he was selfish, maybe he'd still pursue some kind of relationship. Joe had always been a pretty selfish guy.

Except when it came to the one kid who'd always been the center of his world.

The day he'd kissed his little brother had been the best and the worst of his whole life.

He curled up on the couch, and this, _this _was why he needed someone else nearby. Justin muttering in his sleep or Kendall thrashing or Oliver snoring or Tripp humming. He had to have something keeping his attention sidetracked so he wouldn't spend every waking minute dissecting what had happened, like a car crash on loop.

Thing is, he doesn't remember the entire day with startling clarity.

He can recall long weeks of nothing, after JONAS first broke up, of rediscovering what it was like to be a normal kid, or at least, half normal. He'd already graduated high school, but didn't want to venture off to college just yet. He wasted idle hours exploring Jersey suburbs he hadn't had the chance to see minus a bodyguard in a long, long time. Mostly, he just waited.

'Cause back then, the breakup wasn't a _breakup_, it was just a _break_. Joe had job offers for movies rolling in, but he put it all off, confident that his brothers just needed some time. Just a little, to find their own identities outside the band, so they could come back, greater than ever.

He'd been fucking naïve.

Meanwhile, Kevin was dating Macy, taking online classes at the community college, convinced he was going to become a Marine Biologist and begin an exciting career at _Sea World_, because that was his Biggest Dream. Well, outside of being a rockstar and a movie director, and he had both of those in the bag. He was aiming for the trifecta.

And Nick, well, Nick was being magnificent. Jetting off to LA, Paris, Nashville. Making music with some of the hottest names in the business. He was carving out a name for himself, one that had nothing to do with the other two Lucas brothers.

All the while, Joe had just sat around, twiddling his thumbs, believing that things would turn out fine. The more he turned down jobs, the less scripts rolled in, but hey, he didn't want to be abroad when Nick and Kevin came to their senses.

They did, but not the way he'd expected. Almost a year and a half had passed, and they ganged up on him. Told him it was time for a concert.

A grand farewell, to all their fans.

That's not what they called it. The PR people referred to it as a hiatus, like the last eighteen months had been a simple lull, and this was actually _news_.

Joe didn't remember much about the actual event; nothing more than the roar of the fans, the way Kevin had actually cried, a bone-crushing hug from his mom. Oh, and the blinding, piercing pain of betrayal, of abandonment. It hurt all the worse because Kevin and Nick would barely meet his eyes; they'd known this was coming, made the decision without him and everything, and never once said a word about it. Dirty Judases.

Nick was the only one man enough to admit it, of course. In their dressing room, after, when Joe was inhaling the scent of his own sweat and riding the post-concert high with the knowledge that it would be the last time. He didn't have the balls to go solo, or the creative chops like Nick. He was the song writer extraordinaire, the prodigy. The band had been his brainchild.

He marched up to Joe with steel in his eyes, shoved him back against the wall all heated and intense. This, Joe can remember, picture-perfect in his mind. It's the only part of the whole day he really wishes he could forget.

Nick wanted to know what his problem was. Why couldn't he just be grateful that they'd had a good run of it and go on, get a life? Didn't he want to be a big shot movie star? Didn't he want something more than to stand in JONAS's shadow?

Actually, no, Joe had retorted. The idea of getting involved with Hollywood again after this left a foul taste in his mouth. He didn't want to have to deal with any more _backstabbers_.

Nick had snapped, raged to the point where Joe had thought it was all going to end in fists, a crashing crescendo for the band's majestic finale. Fitting, he'd thought, because the whimper with which it had fizzled out was just pathetic. But Nick didn't hit him.

He kissed him.

And it was so much worse than a sucker punch to the gut. Because Joe had kissed back, furious, fearful, ecstatic all at the same time. He loved Nick so damn much he couldn't stand it. He always had. The band had been the only thing keeping them close, and that's why he'd hoped, so hard, for so long. He didn't want to lose his little brother.

There, caught up with Nick's lips, his tongue, his teeth and the way his hands roved _everywhere_, Joe understood that they didn't need the band to stay close. The one thing he'd secretly wished for, his darkest, deepest desire was happening. It was like a miracle.

Then realization hit, and everything shattered.

Joe had pushed Nick away, and nothing had ever been the same.

That hadn't been the end of it, obviously. Nick stuck around for a few weeks, ambushing Joe whenever they were alone. He was an expert on persistence.

When Joe met up with his future-roommates at the fashion show Stella dragged him to, it had been a godsend. The perfect way to avoid sending Nick straight to hell, or at the very least, ruining his bright, shiny future.

What he'd done, he did for all the right reasons.

It didn't make it suck any less.

The last time Joe talked to Nick was two months ago. He'd had an interview in New York, was staying at the downtown Marriott and trying to be all incognito. Meaning he couldn't just sneak out of his hotel, for fear of attracting every fan in the tri-state area.

So he'd called, "We need to talk."

"About what? Mom? Dad? Kevin? Frankie? Oh, or how about that new action movie with-"

"Dude, stop. You know about what."

"We really don't."

"Joe."

Silence.

"Joe."

He wanted to say something, honestly. He really did. But the words on the tip of his tongue weren't the ones Nick wanted to hear, even if they were what he _needed_.

Finally, Nick sighed.

"I can't keep doing this, Joe. I can't keep giving you up, only to have this-" Joe could imagine the way his baby brother was waving his hand vaguely in the air, trying to make sense of the all-encompassing 'this', "-happen over and over again."

Joe tried to find his voice, and it hadn't been this hard when he was a popstar. He struggled to choke out, "I'm not the one making it happen."

"No," Nick admitted, "But you're not exactly allowing me to let it go, either. How am I supposed to get past this if you won't even- acknowledge it?"

"Try?" Joe suggested, trying to sound scathing but really just coming off as tired.

Nick snorted, "I'm so sick of your attitude-"

"Then just move on already."

For a beat, Nick was quiet, considering, and then he said, "You're not."

"So? If you were really moving on, you wouldn't be so preoccupied with what's going on with _me_."

"Don't say that. I'm your _brother_. I'm supposed to be invested in your life."

"Kevin doesn't nag this much."

"Kevin's older than you. Older siblings are supposed to be role models," Nick paused, "…You're a really sucky role model, Joe."

He was teasing; that much was obvious from his voice. He was trying to restore some sense of normalcy to the conversation. But Joe wouldn't, couldn't bite, "That's one thing we can both agree on."

He hung up. Nick established radio silence, and Joe hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep, ever since.

Thus went the story of how Joe had alienated his little brother.

* * *

Ugh, sleeping on the couch was not fun. His spine felt like it had turned to rock, and the noon light streaming in the window was entirely too cheerful. They really needed some fucking curtains.

Joe stretched, still feeling exhausted, lying in a pool of despair and self-hatred until footsteps pounded into the living room.

"Oh hey, you're up," Kendall said, looking surprised, "You sleep like the dead."

"Really?" Joe tilted his head to the side, trying to rid himself of a crick in his neck, ""Cause I feel like I didn't sleep at all."

"Suckage. We've been playing Halo in Oliver's room so we wouldn't wake you. Ah, and Tripp made cupcakes," Kendall grinned half heartedly, plucking one off a tray on the kitchen counter. He began picking the sprinkles out of his frosting and popping them in his mouth. He'd been listless all week, maybe from the shock of seeing James, maybe from fucking spring allergies. Joe didn't know, didn't ask, didn't want to know.

"Sweet," he scrambled to his feet and grabbed one of the cupcakes from the tray, listening to Oliver and Tripp bicker from the next room. Those two were so alike that they clashed, constantly.

"C'mon," Kendall beckoned, tugging Joe along by his elbow and into Oken's room. Joe stumbled along after him, feeling stiff and trying to lick the frosting off his pastry. Cupcakes, pssh. Tripp was such a _woman _sometimes.

But Joe really liked chocolate frosting, so he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

They played video games until around four, when Oliver's phone pinged and the day began to go to shit.

Hannah Montana was planning a visit.

"When she said she was coming soon, I didn't think she meant _next week_," Oliver roared, panic evident in every inch of his being. He immediately assembled a war tribunal, bouncing options off Kendall, Tripp, and Justin like they were deciding the future of America.

Joe didn't really understand the Big Deal. From the sound of it, the girl was gaga for him. That, or she was a manipulative bitch who enjoyed playing with Oliver's feelings. Odds were, the latter wasn't the case. But Oliver was convinced that one wrong move would bring about the apocalypse, and Joe supposed he couldn't really fault him for that. Love felt pretty apocalyptic sometimes.

Somewhere amidst the brouhaha, the door rang, and Joe was designated answerer for the day. Obediently, he went about his duty, completely unsurprised when it was the littlest Russo, come to collect Justin. As an eyewitness to his friend's nervous breakdown the night before, Joe thought a babysitter was just what the doctor ordered.

Only, Justin was kind of a slippery asshole. He emerged from Oliver's room wrapped in a flannel robe with a thermometer in his mouth, a master at avoidance. With only a few words, he managed to dispatch little Max, who actually, come to think of it, wasn't all that little. Maybe a year or two younger than Nick.

Joe was jogging after him before he'd consciously made the decision to. There was something about the expression on Max's face, forlorn, lost.

Maybe Joe just missed being a big brother.

"Hey! Russo, hey!"

Max spun around, "Hey- uh, you?"

"Joe," Joe reminded him, because they'd met a handful of times, but he'd gleaned that the kid wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.

"Yeah, Joe. What's up?"

"Nothing. You wanna go…uh…I don't know, play catch in the park? You play catch?" Joe asked dubiously, because throwing around a baseball had always cheered Nick up, but Nick was a showoff and enjoyed pawning Joe at anything athletic, and frankly, to anyone else playing catch was probably only something you did with little kids. Max may have been younger, but he must've been at least a senior in high school. Plus he was taller than Joe.

All the same, he brightened and chirped, "Sure!"

Which is how Joe ended up in Central Park, tossing around a brand new baseball, straight from the corner store. They were breaking in new gloves, too. He hadn't wanted to risk going back to the apartment and having Justin get nosy. Although it would serve him right, if he even cared.

Max was chatty, going on about some new invention he'd made with cheese and socks and an electrical socket that didn't sound in any way safe or sane. His mouth moved a mile a minute, and even though he was talking nonsense, he seemed relieved to have someone to talk to.

Joe threw the ball to the kid with a grin, finally letting himself grunt, "You miss Justin?"

"No!" he emphasized the point by slamming his fist into the glove, but then his face fell and he meekly added, "Yeah, I don't know. Maybe."

"It's not your fault, y'know. That he doesn't want to come to dinner."

"Feels like," Max replied, biting his lip, "Dad says he got in a big fight with Alex, and that's why he never swings by, but…Alex isn't home most of the time, so."

Joe frowned. He wondered if Justin knew his kid brother felt that way. Probably not. Justin was the kind of person who'd care. A lot.

"It's not you," Joe said firmly, "Your brother's kind of self-absorbed."

"I could have told you that," Max snorted.

"He'll come around."

"Yeah," Max agreed, but he didn't look like he believed it.

* * *

Maybe it was sleeping on the couch, or maybe it was the talk with Max, or maybe it was even that Joe hadn't eaten anything but one of Tripp's chocolate cupcakes, but he was bone tired when he walked in the door of the apartment. All he wanted was to fall into his room and sleep for centuries. No, _eons_.

He could hear Tripp, Justin, Kendall, and Oliver, still locked in Oliver's room playing what sounded like Mario Kart. He could smell the garlicy scent of pizza, could see one empty box already folded into the garbage. He was tempted to stop, but all he could think about was how worn-out he felt. Sleep was priority numero uno, even if it was only eight. This day had to be _over. _

Only, when he walked into his room, he discovered there was a flaw in his plan, and it was _gigantic_.

The words fell past his lips before he could stop them, "Who let you in?"

For the past six months, Joe had flitted in and out of Justin's bed, but never once had anyone else ever been in his own.

Until now.

Until Nick.

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	6. Keep Provoking Me, Keep On Roping Me

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Six_

By: Jondy Macmillan

_

* * *

-Oliver-_

* * *

"Oliver?"

"Nghaghguh."

"Grouchy much? Geez. I was just calling to remind you to pick up Miley from the airport."

He blinked at the ceiling.

"Her flight arrived five minutes ago, so I hope that was your just-drove-through-airport-traffic groan, and not your just-woke-up snarl. They sound really similar sometimes."

He blinked again. Shit.

"I forgot," Oliver groaned, which wasn't strictly true. He had not forgotten that Miley was due to fly in. He had been stressing about it for the past week and a half. It was all he could do to keep his mind off of her, the way she smiled and the blue of her eyes. The previous night, he hadn't even been able to fall asleep, too nervous about the idea of her presence.

He had, however, forgotten to set his alarm clock.

He began to climb out of bed, clutching the phone to his ear, as Lilly said, "The amount of how much that surprises me is not very much at all. She's going to be so mad at you. You know how she feels about taxi drivers. You poor bastard."

"Thanks, Lilly. Talking to you is always so uplifting."

"I am a beam of sunlight in a harsh, unforgiving world," she agreed, with a laugh, "I'd get your ass to JFK, stat."

"Will do. Thanks."

"Sure. Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck."

Oliver held the phone to his ear, listening to her soft breath before the click of a call ended, and even then. Like the dead silence would somehow alleviate his guilt.

He wanted to call her back, to tell her that he was sorry. That he couldn't help loving Miley.

She was two worlds thrown together, sea salt and hay bales. Oliver had this picture of her, in his head, of the way she flitted around her beach house back in California like some kind of butterfly in turquoise, purple, and pink, every shade of neon. She was color and laughter and a brilliant smile. Home and somewhere else, somewhere that Oliver kind of imagined was straight out of a cowboy movie, with horses and saddles and frontier justice, duels at high noon, and girls wearing bustles. He knew Tennessee wasn't anything like all that, but it didn't stop him from imagining Miley in a corset.

Groaning again, he pulled on a faded Iron Weasel t-shirt that he was pretty certain was not his judging by the logo and the tightness, venturing out into the hallway clad in that and his boxers.

The apartment had been freakishly quiet since Friday, since the arrival of their unexpected house guest. Oliver didn't have a problem with Nick Lucas, except for maybe how he made Joe act. Nick's presence was driving Joe insane. Every time he grabbed a free minute, it was to wail, _"He won't leave, why won't he just leave?"_

Since Oliver and the rest of their roommates knew firsthand that Joe wanted to bone the kid's brains out, they couldn't see what the huge problem was. Kendall had started a pool over how long it would take Joe to cave.

Oliver sort of thought Joe might break with his sanity first. Like at that exact moment, for instance, when he stumbled upon the singer making a break for it onto the fire escape.

"What- are you doing?"

"Running away," Joe said, straddling the window frame.

Oliver did not actually find this to be an implausible scenario.

"Um. Really?"

"No. Idiot," Joe said, like he couldn't believe Oliver was so stupid, "I'm going to get groceries."

"Out the fire escape?"

Joe gave him this shifty expression and said, "Nick's in the kitchen with your girlfriend. He's blocking the door."

"With my- what? Miley's here?"

"Has been for like, half an hour, dude. Did you know she laughs really loudly? Like, really loudly. My little brother is not as funny as she's making him out to be. He's going to get an inflated ego," Joe glanced a little wistfully towards the kitchen. Then he continued to climb out of the window, leaning back in so that his hands rested on the frame, watching Oliver expectantly. He wanted an answer.

Right.

"So why didn't you put a stop to it?"

"Because he's stalking me. You do not enable your stalkers, Oken."

Oliver rolled his eyes.

"Have fun shopping. Make sure you pick up some ravioli."

"Why? You're not going to- cook?" Joe looked horrified.

"No. You are," he opened his mouth in protest, but Oliver cut Joe off quick, "In exchange for me keeping this information from Nick."

"You dirty blackmailer."

Oliver shrugged, "It better be some good pasta."

Then he shut the window, barely missing Joe's fingers.

Joe made a suitably offended face at him through the window, and mouthed some very not nice words to boot, but Oliver couldn't hear a thing through the thick pane. He grinned, flipped Joe off, and proceeded down the hall towards the kitchen.

Where Joe's little brother was macking on Oliver's girl.

"Miley," Oliver said, clearing his throat exaggeratedly.

"Oliver," she glanced up, a smile blossoming over her lips. It did not stop him from noticing how very close she was sitting to Nick.

Joe's little brother was infinitely smarter than Joe was. He zoomed right in on the heart of the problem. That or he noticed how strongly Oliver was glaring at him, and figured he should fix the situation as quickly as possible.

"We were talking about a- song," Nick said lamely, holding up his hands like he knew exactly what he was intruding in on. Oliver's eyes narrowed.

"We were thinking about doing a duet," Miley smiled, oblivious, like the way her knee had been pressed up against Nick's was totally okay. Hell, she probably did think that. Oliver sighed. And then he noticed Kendall and Tripp leaning over the back of the couch like over-eager puppies.

Miley wasn't paying them any attention, so he assumed official introductions had already been made.

"Just woke up?" she asked kindly, putting together a plate of scrambled eggs and some bacon from pans on the counter that looked like something Justin had cooked up a few hours before.

"Your observational powers are astounding," Oliver agreed, glancing down at his boxers and wishing they were plain flannel instead of tiny ducklings.

"Dude, insulting the girl is not the way to get into her pants," Kendall hissed theatrically from the couch, like he knew anything at all about getting into someone's pants. Much less a girl's.

"Aren't you allergic to vagina?" Oliver hissed back, and he might have said it a bit more loudly than he'd intended. Miley wasn't paying attention, still fixing up the eggs, but Nick shifted uncomfortably. Like he thought maybe a person shouldn't say the word vagina in front of someone who had one. Kendall laughed, not fazed in the least.

"Not that I'm aware of. Maybe I should conduct an experiment."

He licked his lips, eyes trailing deliberately over Miley. She didn't seem to mind. Which bothered him. Immensely.

"Your roommates are cute, Oliver," she rolled her eyes, not in the least intimidated by Kendall's act, "Cute and very much not my type."

Kendall arched an eyebrow, like, _touché_.

Oliver muttered, "You're not his either."

"I'm everybody's type," Miley crossed her arms, pouting a little bit. Her eyes were dancing, and he'd missed this, missed seeing what she looked like when she was making a joke.

"You're not his," Oliver walked fully into the living room, jabbing Kendall in the shoulder with his index finger, "Unless you grow half a foot, cut your hair, and buy tighter jeans. Oh, and you'll probably need a peni-"

Kendall clapped his hand over Oliver's mouth and said, "Now you're just being mean."

Miley said, "They sell tighter jeans than these?"

She frowned at her skinny pants. Kendall snorted, and Oliver could tell he was somewhere a million miles away in his own head, thinking about what James would have to say about that.

After a beat Tripp said, "Dude, can I have your eggs?"

Oliver glanced at the plate that Miley was holding out for him, the scrambled bits all neatly pushed to one side, the bacon on the other, and none of it touching.

"No? It's my breakfast. Get your own."

"Didn't you already have two plates?" Miley asked him, a little bit incredulous.

Tripp frowned, "I am a growing boy."

"You're a growing something, alright," Miley muttered under her breath, "I'm thinking wildebeest."

"Hey!"

"She's feisty. You should take her to your _special place_," Kendall intoned, laughing.

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Tripp agreed, pouting, "Take her to your special place. Away from here."

"You have a special place?" Miley cocked an eyebrow, eyes sparkling. Nick was quietly snickering into his hand.

And Oliver? Oliver was blushing. He could feel the burn on his cheeks. He protested, "_No one_ calls it that."

"Yes we do," Kendall disagreed, "I mean I always call it _Oliver's special place_. Don't you?"

He turned to Tripp, who nodded, unable to stop from snorting, "Oh yeah. All the time."

"I'm kind of scared," Miley laughed, making a face, "What exactly do you do at your special place?"

Oliver opened his mouth to repeat that no one called Central Park his special place when she wasn't there, but before he could Miley was being told-

"Mostly he emos out and contemplates if the pond's deep enough to drown in, I think-" Tripp was saying, but Oliver elbowed him in the stomach and his voice cut off with a wheeze.

"Pond? They have ponds in New York City?" Miley asked.

"I know, I was shocked too," Kendall said, making little pushing gestures to Oliver, "Go on, take the girl out on the town. Have a fun little _date_."

"What do you say?" she grinned. Oliver shifted uncomfortably. Kendall was dead. He was so, so dead. Oliver couldn't believe he'd just said the d-word.

"Alright, time to go," Tripp announced, grabbing Kendall by the arm.

"Where?"

"We just need to _go. _Out, into the world, where you can't talk to anyone anymore," Tripp muttered, glaring at him, and sometimes Oliver thought that Tripp was actually a lot nicer than he let on, when his personality didn't get in the way.

Miley was still watching him.

"Oliver?"

"Sure," Oliver shifted uncomfortably, "If you want."

"Have fun at your special place," Kendall said, dragging his feet on the way to the door. Roommates, ugh.

"Stop fucking calling it that," Oliver yelled. He was seriously contemplating drowning Kendall in the pond. See how he felt about his _special place_ then. God, could he have been any more embarrassing?

Kendall paused in the doorway.

"He's grouchy today," he told Miley and Nick, "Good luck."

He saluted them and walked straight out the door, Tripp at his heels.

"I like him. He's weird," Miley laughed.

"You're probably related. He's from Minnesota," Oliver grumbled.

"Contrary to popular belief, the land between New York and California is not all one state."

"So wait," Nick asked, and it was only then that Oliver's attention beamed back in on him. He realized he was still snickering into his hand. Jerk. He said, "What is your _special place_?"

He glared at Nick and instead of saying something remarkably mature, like none-of-your-business, he said, "Joe snuck out the fire escape to go pick up groceries. You can probably still catch him."

Nick's eyes widened. He smiled gratefully and said, "Thanks."

"Sure," Oliver shrugged, putting as much macho intimidation as he could into his voice. Nick kept smiling, so he wasn't certain it had worked.

Then again, his eyes were already on the front door, probably already thinking about how he was going to be hot on Joe's heels in two seconds flat. They'd played a wildly competitive game of charades two nights ago, and it was clear to Oliver that Nick hated to lose.

* * *

Oliver knew the route to the park by heart. He probably could have walked it in his sleep. But with Miley behind him he kept stumbling, like he was hiking a mountain instead of a city sidewalk, like maybe he'd never once been down the way before.

When they arrived, Miley exhaled, her voice a little skeptical when she asked, "This is it?"

"This is it," Oliver said, glancing around the park, at the little benches and the hotdog stand on the corner and the dew fresh flowers, "Kendall and Tripp were making a big deal out of nothing."

"No, it's-" Miley paused, eyes alighting on a couple in a rowboat out on the manmade lake, "Can we get one of those?"

Oliver blinked. All the times he'd been here, and he wasn't even sure where to rent one.

After half an hour of wandering around the park, over grassy knolls, trampling on a few tulips, Oliver and Miley secured a boat. It was bigger than he'd thought it would be, and they had to row, which kind of sucked. They were both in good shape; they had to be. They were constantly performing in front of millions. But even so, rowing was hard work, and by the time they reached a wide empty stretch of water, Oliver decided he'd had enough.

So did Miley. She dropped her oar, threw back her head and said, "It's nice out today."

Sunlight shaded the stretch of her neck. Her knee was pressed against his, but it was somehow so much closer, more intimate than the way she'd been touching Nick.

"We should have brought a picnic," she decided, pursing her lips, "Just like in the movies."

"Whoops," he frowned. Miley leaned back on her elbows, and after a second, Oliver scooted down off the bench, a little farther, resting his neck against her hip.

She shifted, letting him roll his head back onto her stomach and began to thread her fingers through his hair, "Wow. This has gotten really soft. I like it when you don't put all that gunk in it."

Her shirt rode up a little, and Oliver could feel the burn of her skin against his. It took him a few seconds to regain his train of thought, to say, "Yeah."

She was like, _petting_ him. Lilly pet him all the time, but in like a _good dog_ kind of way. Not like- wow, her fingers felt good. He tried to think of something to say, something that wouldn't be awkward, that wouldn't ruin _this_.

"So, um, I'm sorry for missing you at the airport."

Her eyes widened and she punched him in the shoulder, "_Yeah_. I forgot about that. Jerk."

"My alarm clock, um-"

"It's not a big deal."

"Really? Because Lilly said you really hate taking cabs, and I kind of remember-"

"Oliver," her eyes were dancing again, clear blue in the afternoon light, "its okay. Lilly says a lot of things."

"She has a big mouth."

"She does," Miley agreed, "Like the other day, she told me the strangest thing."

Oliver felt his heart jump into his throat, because no way. No way would Lilly do this to him. She wouldn't. She wasn't that cruel.

"Oliver," Miley asked, peering down at him through the wave of her auburn bangs, "Do you like me?"

His head jolted up off of her tummy.

"Lilly is _insane_. Certifiable, even, and why would she say something like that to you? Did she actually say that? Someone needs to take her to see the crazy doctor, because whoo-" Miley clapped a hand over his mouth, which served the double purpose of bringing his head down to pillow on her skin again as well as making him shut the hell up. Which he figured was advisable.

"I'm going to ask again," she said slowly, words barely louder than an exhalation, "Oliver? Do you like me?"

He thought of all the times Lilly had told him to man the fuck up already. And then Oliver did a weird thing. He decided to be calm and mature about this.

It might have had something to do with the way the boat was still rocking from his last panic fit.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" He shifted, the boat moving with his weight, his head resting against Miley's taut stomach.

"I used to think so. I mean, you were my friend and a total goofball, though not- unattractive," She smiled that huge, toothy smile of hers, no shame, no censorship, "It felt kind of like incest."

Oliver thought of Justin, and Joe, and how he and Miley were so close they were practically related, and how he'd seen both her and Lilly as sisters, until he hadn't. He wondered if that's why he felt so deeply connected to them, and then decided it didn't matter how or why.

She paused, "That wasn't an answer, though."

"Miley, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. Of course I like you. You're Miley. You're-" _everything_, he wanted to say, but instead he said, "An amazing singer and a horrible cook and a great friend and," he proceeded to list every trait he'd ever liked about Miley ever until she said-

"Oliver. _Oliver_, stop talking. How'm I supposed to get a word in with all this chatter?" She made little talking motions with her fingers, and god, he'd missed the way she was always talking with her hands.

"I was kind of- hoping you wouldn't."

"Say what?"

"If you don't say anything," Oliver mumbled, more than a little embarrassed, "You can't shoot me down."

"And who said I'd do that?"

"Common sense."

"And who said I have any of that?" Miley deadpanned.

"Good point."

"Look, when they told me that I was going to have to kiss you on stage, I refused. I don't buy into publicity stunts, and, alright, I was kind of repulsed by the idea. Then, I had to convince Daddy to put away his shotgun. And soothe Lola's nerves. It was all a bit hectic."

She smiled, but Oliver was still focused on repulsive, his heart sinking low in his chest.

"Don't look at me like that, Ollie," she emphasized his name, "I'm not done yet. Of course I was repulsed- you're, you've always been one of my best friends. I mean, I was there when you barfed in the cafeteria and burped the ABC's thought farting was hilarious- and yeah, I know you still think it is. Shut up."

"I'm not talking."

"Your eyes are. A mile a minute. So, I've always had trouble reconciling the image of you as an actual guy and the cool but disgusting kid I've always known. Personal growth takes me a while, if you haven't noticed."

He had. He thought it was kind of adorable, actually.

"Afterwards- I mean, it was good. Who knew you could kiss like that?"

"Didn't Lily ever say- "

"No. She tried. Probably. I, uh, got a bit nauseous whenever that conversation arose, know what I'm saying? And…I don't know, I figured it was fine, because you'd never had feelings for me, and it was just this- blip. The things I thought, when we kissed. But then, the more and more I thought about it, the more I got that it wasn't. A blip. I'd been thinking of you like I think of my brother, revolting, a little hard to tolerate, and not even close to attractive and y'know. My brother. When I thought about it though, you weren't any of that. I can tolerate you, I more than tolerate you. You're actually pretty cool. And attractive. And I've been kind of an idiot for not seeing it for so long. Oliver, I never meant to hurt you. Really. Can- you forgive me?"

"Miley, there's nothing to forgive. I don't blame you for anything. Except maybe calling me repulsive. And _revolting_. Geez. Hit a guy where it hurts."

"Seriously? I was young and naive, okay?"

"Right, and you're a hag now."

"I am," she insisted, "I will have you know I am a very mature nineteen. I'm even getting wrinkles."

She pointed to her face, "See?"

All he could see were the familiar crinkles in the corners of her eyes when she laughed and smiled, each line etched into her face since birth.

"Stop it. You're- beautiful."

He wasn't sure if he was allowed to say that. Miley hadn't actually said anything about them being more than what they were. She mostly just admitted he wasn't hideous anymore, which, _ouch_. She lowered his eyes, and for a beat, he thought he'd made a terrible, irreversible mistake. Then she said, "I wasn't beautiful enough to stop you from running away across the country to hide out."

"I didn't move here because of you- my label's here and-"

"Stop," she wiggled her fingers, "Lilly told me."

"Lilly is a filthy traitor," he muttered.

"Yeah," Miley grinned, "But she loves us. A lot. I thought- when I asked her if it was okay, that I do this, I thought she'd shoot me down. Hard. That's why it took me so long to even ask."

"Wait, to do what?"

Miley crossed the gap between them, her lips pressing into his, and she smelled like sunshine and sea salt and home.

Oliver, in an astounding act of stupidity, pushed her away, flailing, nearly tipping the boat over. She looked at him with something like hurt when he said, "It's not that easy."

It came out sounding like a question. He was breathing hard and holy shit, Miley Stewart had just kissed him.

"It is. That easy," She smiled, and it was a little cracked. She said, "You do still want me. Right? I mean- oh god, Lilly didn't make it all up, did she? Dangflabbit, that girl's got an imagination like a-"

Miley Stewart had just kissed him, and he'd pushed her away. He was the biggest _idiot_ in the entire world. This needed to be fixed, immediately.

"Miley. She didn't make it up."

Oliver hoped he hadn't caused that. He hoped he hadn't made her doubt that she could have any guy in the world, including him. And it didn't matter that she was famous, and it didn't matter that she could probably _buy_ Montana. She was one of his best friends; the girl who lived in a million memories, from the disastrous time he tried and failed to teach her to surf to day she helped Lilly bombard him with text message quizzes for two months, just to make sure he'd be able to get his GED.

And he hadn't loved her then, not the way he did now, not this heart pounding, punch-in-the-gut, breath stealing way, but he'd always loved her as a friend, for being in his life. For always being there, from the first time he got dumped to the day he found out he had diabetes. He wasn't sure of the exact moment his feelings had changed. He didn't care. He just knew that they had, and that Miley was staring at him like she actually cared that he'd been hurting all these months. Like maybe she'd been feeling some of that same fear that had lived in his heart; the tension, the anxiety, and the terror.

He hadn't expected this, her, in the midst of Central Park, telling him that maybe he hadn't just spend the last few years of his life pining away for nothing. He hadn't expected it, but right now, he was so grateful for it. He felt like his lungs might burst, like his heart might pound out of his ribcage beneath her piercing gaze.

"You sure?" she shrugged, like maybe she was trying to tell him his rejection as okay, somehow.

"I'm sure," he said softly, "You just- surprised me, is all. Can we, um. Try again?"

She smiled.

It was the best thing Oliver had ever seen.


	7. Can You Feel Me When I Think About You?

**Canaries In The Mines**

_Chapter Seven_

A/N: Long time no see. Yeah, I'm still writing this. Just uh, for reference, I started this fic a looooong time ago, plotting everything out at the beginning. I always assumed Alex would end up the family wizard, but for creativity's sake, I wanted to write a story where it was Max. Obviously that didn't happen irl, but I'm still applying it to this fic, so please don't message me saying my meta is wrong. Trust me, I know.

* * *

_-Justin-_

* * *

Justin kind of hated Miley.

Sure, she was nice. She was sweet. All Southern Hospitality with a little bit of _feisty_ thrown in. And he vaguely remembered meeting her once before, or- well, that whole Tipton cruise was hazy, but man, it was kind of cool that he'd met Hannah Montana. He'd lived with famous people for about six months now, but none of them were nearly so pretty.

He also hadn't hidden any of their albums under his mattress during his formative teenage years.

But the problem with Miley was that she seemed to have a mission. And that was to hook up with Oliver in every single room in the apartment.

It was _sickening_.

Voyeurism was all very well and good on paper and in porn, but not so much when it involved friends that held zero sexual appeal to Justin. He'd taken to hiding out in Oliver's room because it was almost guaranteed to be the one place that Oliver and Miley _wouldn't_ be, having already conquered every viable surface days ago. Today, Justin had already managed to bump into the lovebirds in the bathroom, the kitchen, and in a brief glimpse on the fire escape.

Apparently their love could not be contained merely to the apartment anymore.

Justin was currently settled on Oliver's futon, viciously punching buttons on an Xbox controller. His brain was half occupied with alien killing and half wondering if he'd ever be able to eat in the kitchen again after witnessing Miley's shapely thighs wrapped around Oliver's hips while they attempted to eat each other's faces off.

Tripp was kicking his ass.

And proclaiming it loudly to the blank walls.

"I'm pounding you so hard, Russo, your mom must be feeling it in the womb."

"Dude, mom jokes are not cool."

"Your face isn't cool," Tripp mocked, executing a perfect shot on some poor, guileless alien whose head exploded like a ripe melon.

The door creaked open, and both of them froze, hoping they weren't about to see anything that involved nudity.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when it turned out to be Kendall.

"Where's Joe?" Kendall asked, plopping down besides Tripp on the futon.

Tripp replied, "I think Nick dragged him to some big PR event in Times Square. Or ESPN Sports Center. He gets equally excited about both."

Kendall made a face and said, "Freak. ESPN Sports Center is _so much better_ than dealing with the sharks."

"ESPN Sports Center is lame," Justin said, chucking a chip at Kendall's face.

"Right, because you'd rather go to the Museum of Natural History," Kendall grumbled under his breath.

"There is nothing wrong with learning the history of the Earth."

"The place smells like dead things. It is a carcass museum," Kendall declared.

"Knock knock." All three of them froze at the sound of Oliver's voice. His head popped into his room, hair mussed, mouth the color of fruit punch. "You guys are hording the snacks. It is not healthy behavior."

Tripp hugged a bag of Doritos against his chest and said something mean. Kendall snorted into his drink.

Justin was infinitely more diplomatic.

"Look, nothing against your girlfriend, but doesn't she have a job to do? Somewhere that is not here?"

Oliver stared at him. And then he said, "See, when you talk now all I hear is the sound of the bitter and alone."

"He can't be reasoned with," Justin told Tripp.

"I know. Take your infectious happiness elsewhere. Go on, you. Shoo."

"You know this is _my _room? I'll be coming back eventually," Oliver warned. He grinned a bit ominously, grabbing a bag of chips and retreating to the living room.

"I'm jealous of him." Tripp groaned, and after a second he seemed to realize he'd said so out loud.

"Yeah, me too," Kendall agreed in a rush, Justin joining in with an accordant, "Yep."

"Want to take out our aggression on three dimensional zombies?" Tripp held up a game still wrapped in shiny plastic and continued, "They say the dripping blood almost looks real."

"I'm in."

* * *

Justin for sure hated the subway.

He grew up in New York City, but something about being underground made him uncomfortable, like one day he'd walk up the platform stairs and see the entire city collapsed on top of him. And then there was the smell; piss and engine grease, all hot and curling up in his nostrils.

In high school, he used to use magic to avoid taking the subway whenever he could. Now he had no choice. Justin sank into an empty plastic chair and sighed.

Magic.

It wasn't something he thought about often.

Mostly because it wasn't something he had, anymore.

It still lived dormant in his veins, an itch he could never quite scratch. He missed it more than he cared to admit. The way the other guys felt about music? That was how he'd felt about his powers, once.

For the longest time, the idea of having them ripped free was the most terrifying thing he could think of, until it actually happened, and Justin learned that there was so much more to be scared of. Like a pretty girl with dark doe eyes and caustic wit and a smile that lit up his insides brighter than any spell could.

His dad had called, again. Skipping out on dinner last Friday had earned Justin an hour of yelling that made him feel exactly like a kid again. He wondered if all parents had that mortifying effect on their children, or if it was just his. Justin had a second invite to dine with the Russo's now, and it wasn't optional. He hummed a funeral dirge on the path back to his family's apartment, dragging his feet right up until he was at the front door.

Justin wasn't ready for this, and he knew it, but it wasn't really like he had a choice. Avoiding home was getting older than old, and he was running out of excuses.

He knocked once, then twice, and then remembered that he had a key, somewhere. Justin dug around in the depths of his jeans pockets, shifting receipts and his Metro card, an empty gum wrapper and the hard curve of a guitar pick that Tripp told him to hold and promptly forgot about.

No key.

Justin shifted from foot to foot and wondered if he should knock again, but he was spared the indignity in favor of the awkward. The door swung open.

"Hey. Um. Come in," Max stepped back, looking shy and out of place in the doorway of their apartment. He'd been weirdly vulnerable ever since they accidentally turned him into a little girl, childishness seeping back into his posture even as he began to look more and more like a man. Which is to say, his body language didn't necessarily mean anything.

It still made Justin feel guilty and uncomfortable, like maybe his skin was on wrong. He hoped desperately that he hadn't done this to his little brother, marginalizing him somehow by forcing him blindly between a rock and a hard place.

"How're you doing, Max?" Justin shoved his hands deeper in his pockets, for lack of anything better to do with them.

"You'd probably know if you came by every once in a while," Max returned.

A defensive reply leapt to Justin's tongue, ready to explain it all away.

Then he spotted Alex.

She was curled up on the couch, knees tucked under her body, a fashion magazine propped in her hands, and suddenly he was right back in high school again. Even across the room, Justin could taste her perfume on his tongue.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Max called, obviously done waiting for a response.

Alex's head snapped up. She blinked. "You're here."

There was no sudden rush of affection on her face. There was nothing, except for that slight hint of surprise, and Justin didn't even know what he expected.

"Where else would I be?"

"According to Max?" Alex snapped the magazine shut, eyelashes sooty in the pale afternoon sunlight, every angle of her face as familiar as the back of Justin's hand. "Not here."

"I've been busy."

"So I've heard." She didn't exactly sound impressed.

"It doesn't mean I'd miss, uh, this," Justin told her lamely, unsure what _this_ is other than one huge familial guilt trip.

"Oh, sure. Sorry, I didn't think you'd be able to get your head out of your ass long enough to-"

Max swept in and saved the day. "Could you guys try to get along for five seconds? Please?"

"Max," Alex said, sounding stunned.

He used to stay out of their arguments. Not anymore, apparently.

Max turned on Justin and said, "She's right though. If you didn't want to come to dinner, Justin, you shouldn't have. God knows you've been ignoring me every time I asked. We don't need you around."

Justin stared. He vaguely remembered Joe saying something about Max showing up at the house last week, but-

"Max, it's not your fault."

"Not my fault that my brother and sister never want to come home? Right. Yeah. I believe that."

Alex cut in softly, "Max, no," reaching out for him. Max whirled on her, anger breaking over his face.

"Then what? What other reason is there?"

Justin forced himself to look at Alex, and she seemed genuinely speechless. He sure as hell was. He'd known acting like he didn't have a family for all this time was wrong, but he'd only thought about it in the abstract. Hurting someone, anyone, _Max_, had definitely not been a part of the plan.

"Look. You're our little brother. We love you," Justin told him, and that was one thing he was absolutely sure of. No matter how fucked his head was, or how he felt about Alex right now, he'd always, always love them both, unconditionally.

Alex laced her arm a little uncertainly around Max's waist. "Hey, why don't we…let's have dinner. You can sit next to me."

Justin stared, realizing that she was still learning kindness, after all this time. It was almost sweet, watching her fumble for the right things to say and do when it came to Max. And it was almost bittersweet, how neither she nor Justin could quite bring themselves to say _I'm sorry_.

* * *

Dinner was awkward, punctuated with sentences like, "Tell Justin to pass the salt," and their dad returning, "Tell him yourself."

Their mom shook her head across the table, the lines on her face deeper than Justin remembered. "Don't get involved, Jerry."

Justin wasn't sure if any actual family bonding went on, too focused on the stony set to Max's mouth and the way Alex's knee accidentally brushed his beneath the table. This was a very, very special kind of hell.

Finally, somewhere over the strawberry shortcake their mom whipped up for dessert, Max asked, "What's it like living with all those musicians when you can't play an instrument?"

It was the first question he'd aimed directly at Justin since their actual entrée left the stove, and everyone at the table pantomimed their surprise.

Their mom's eyes widened marginally.

Their dad dropped his glass of water.

Alex's hand slipped, fork screeching along the rim of her plate.

"I will have you know I am so musically inclined," Justin said, his outrage on autopilot, but a warmth creeping beneath his ribcage. "I am a skilled flautist."

Max snorted, "Yeah. Have you told your house full of rockstars that?"

"Not yet."

"I wouldn't. Trust me on this one." Max returned to his strawberries, stuffing his mouth with the speed and utter lack of grace that only a teenage boy can really master.

Tentatively, Alex said, "You know, you're not all that bad on the drums. It wouldn't be so embarrassing if you told them that."

Justin smiled at her, albeit, a little weakly.

Alex positively beamed in reply.

But he probably should have known things couldn't be fixed just like that.

* * *

She cornered him after all the dishes were freshly washed, fire in her eyes. Justin's fingers twitched for a wand, but in his hands it wouldn't be anything more than a stick of wood, and there was no real magic spell that would make that look on Alex's face okay anyway.

Teeth gritted, jaw set, Alex announced, "Max forgives things too easily."

"Probably," Justin agreed, because it was true. Their baby brother had no idea how to hold a real grudge.

"Why are you even still here?" Alex demanded, paying no mind to how loud or shrill she was getting. Their parents were already in bed, growing lazy boring in their old age, while Max had checked out for homework. The bright, familiar expanse of their open plan kitchen-living room was a barren battleground. "Not ready to head back to your bachelor pad? Uh oh." Alex's lips turned up slyly. "Trouble in paradise?"

Justin flapped a hand in the air noncommittally. "Nothing like that."

"Then why aren't you scampering off to your hidey hole?"

Justin shrugged. "Oliver got a new girlfriend. They're hooking up like it's going out of style. I'm not eager to be mistaken for a futon."

A muscle jumped in Alex's jaw. She was gearing up for a fight. Justin braced himself.

"Can I ask you something?"

He kicked back against the couch, exhaling hard. "You're going to anyway."

"Yeah, sure, fine. What did I do to you that's so horrible that you don't want to be around me anymore?" Alex crossed her arms. "That's what this is, right, Justin? Everyone else is getting punished because you're avoiding me."

His mouth dropped open.

Justin wanted to tell her not to be ridiculous, because she'd been _gone_, in Tunisia or Uzbekistan or Ukraine, always somewhere newer and exciting and further away than before. Her absence didn't excuse his, but the accusation ended up slipping out anyway, "Who's really avoiding who?"

"Pardon?"

"You're the one jetting off to the opposite end of the world." He sounded sulkier than he wanted to.

"For work!" She shook her head, curls bouncing over her shoulders, dark eyes flashing. "At least I have a real excuse. What do you even do all day other than interrupt your friends' love lives?"

"The usual. Play video games. Plot world domination." The joke was weak, but Justin was torn. He hated conflict, but that was where he and Alex seemed to thrive. Just to piss her off, he tacked on, "I'm learning to knit."

"Really? I didn't know that. Maybe because you never call."

Ouch. True. True, but hurtful. Justin retorted, "We talk when I can."

"That's the problem," Alex exploded. A younger version of her would have stomped her foot. His grown up baby sister didn't go that far, her only outward concessions to fury the volume of her voice and the balling of her fists. "You always used to be there for me, no matter what. Now you're there when you can be. Why do you hate me so much?"

Justin's stomach was a hollow pit, it's only occupant a cold lump of self-loathing. The only person he hated right then was himself.

"Alex, you're being ridiculous, I don't-" He ducked as a book nearly hit him full on in the face. Her aim had gotten way better. "If you're going to be like this, I'm leaving."

"No! Stop walking away from me!" She shouted the words, only realizing how loud they'd gotten as her voiced echoed back off the hard surfaces of the kitchen. Alex bit her lip, gathering calm around her. In a more subdued tone, she said, "We used to be so close. I don't get what I did wrong."

Which basically stopped Justin in his tracks, because Alex wasn't the kind of girl who ever admitted she could do anything wrong.

And she didn't this time, besides.

"Don't say that. You didn't- you haven't. It's not your fault." He took her hand, even though it hurt. Everything he'd ever learned about right and wrong evaporated in the face of his sister's self-doubt. Instinct took over.

He'd only ever wanted to protect Alex. Not to break her. He wasn't that monstrous.

She asked, "Then why do you keep avoiding me?" Her eyes were peppered through with gold flecks, this close. Justin had forgotten that.

Alex prompted, "What can I do to fix it?"

Her lips were shiny, glossed over hard candy, pleading with him.

"Tell me," she commanded, and what was he supposed to do? What he could he possibly say to make her understand?

"Justin, please-"

He couldn't take it. He just wasn't this strong. Justin pulled Alex stumbling towards him, crushing their mouths together.

She didn't pull away, but she didn't kiss back, either. As seconds ticked by, one, two, Justin gently put his hands on his little sister's shoulders and pushed her back, only slightly. And then he said, "I'm sorry. I just can't be around you."

He imagined she didn't really want to be around him, either, or wouldn't, once she was able to stop looking at him in wide-eyed shock. He tried to maneuver around her, towards the door. This was probably the last family dinner he'd be attending for a while, but he couldn't bring himself to yell out a goodbye for his parents or Max.

They were used to his flakiness. They'd forgive him, eventually.

Justin made it about halfway to the door before he heard, "Justin, wait," and Alex was holding his arm.

He tried to shake her grip, but all that ended up doing was force her to stumble forward, right into his chest. She peered up at him with her big brown eyes, and to his massive surprise, she didn't look all that horrified. The expression Alex wore was different. Curious. Interested.

Justin stared down at her, horror growing in his chest, because this wasn't- he'd sworn he wouldn't let this happen. He was her big brother. He had to protect her.

Even from himself.

But her big, dark eyes were locked with his, and Justin felt the hum of his pulse kick up to a roar in his ears. She was standing on her tiptoes, and he was leaning down and this time, her lips moved against his.

"Justin," Alex breathed against his mouth, and he yanked back.

"No. No. Absolutely not. No," Justin babbled, gaze fixed determinedly on their sofa, because Alex was not on their sofa, and if his eyes fell back on her he would not be able to figure out what he'd done with all his common sense. It had to be around here somewhere.

"Justin, stop." Alex's fingers were still curled against his elbow, her red-painted nails gouging into his skins. "Don't freak out."

"Too late," he retorted, hyperventilating. "This is not what you want. You should definitely not do that again."

Alex scowled. Justin could hear it in her voice when she snapped, "You don't get to make my choices for me. You don't get to tell me what I want."

"I'm your big brother," Justin yelped back, and hey, that was exactly the problem. The sofa was not all that enthralling, but he couldn't face whatever was on her face. Could. Not. "Trust me, Alex, I know what's best for you, and this is definitely not it."

Alex apparently didn't find their furniture all that enchanting either. She tugged his chin down until he had to meet her stare or squeeze his eyes shut to avoid it. She was magnetic; the former option won out.

Steadily, she told him, "I get to decide that."

"This is fucked up," Justin moaned, because it was the constant mantra that kept him awake at night; it was nice to finally say it out loud. He loved Alex too much to let her suffer the way he had for all these years. Even if she thought she knew better, she didn't. She couldn't.

Leaning in so close that Justin could taste her breath, Alex instructed, "Kiss me."

"Alex-"

"Kiss me."

"But-"

"Are you going to kiss me, or not?"

"Not," Justin opted, choking on how much he wanted to do the opposite and agree. "Don't you get how wrong this is?"

Alex rocked back on her heels. She said, "I know that I love you. I know that I've spent the past few years miserable, without you. And I know that we're happiest when we're together. How can that really be wrong, Justin?"

Justin didn't actually have an answer for that.

Alex's fingers against his jaw turned soft, pliant, caressing. She begged, "Kiss me again, then tell me we can't make this work."

His dad always told him not to say no to a lady's request. Justin bent down, brushing his mouth against hers. It was soft, and it was sweet, and whether it was wrong or right, in that moment he knew one thing for certain.

Alex in his arms was better than magic.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter is Kendall, and will hopefully not take a year? BTR angst is basically my homebase, so, uh, yeah, should be soonish. Thanks to everyone who continues to read/review this crazy whirligig of fun (crack) here.


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